


Reclaiming Ilium

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Politics, Romance, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 99,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25872115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: Ilium, the Holy City. A war to recover sacred land.Hector returns to find that his family has cast a vote for his marriage to a wealthy bachelor. But it is the younger brother, Patroclus, who intrigues him. After a scheme to marry each other instead, they set out to build a legacy and rise through the ranks.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Hector/Patroclus, Implied Past Achilles/Patroclus
Comments: 35
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

Market days were the worst. His boots trekked sand into the paved streets, bumping shoulders with bustling pedestrians, eager shoppers racing from one stall to another. It seemed Argos had not changed in the year he had been gone. Voices rang loud and clear in every direction, merchants hawking their goods, small crowds around them angling for a look at the latest imports. Say what you will about the New Regime. It had brought trade in from the far isles, boosted the economy. Argos was no longer a smidge on the map, but a city of real significance. 

Hector managed to dodge as a bucket of fish heads was emptied on the ground at his feet, the saltwater and slime spattering the legs of people standing too close. He shook his head at the startled cries and half-hearted insults tossed around. If there had been a different route to take from the docks to his house, he surely would have. But one couldn’t avoid the market on a day when merchant ships arrived at harbor. It had been a merchant ship that brought him home, after all. 

He ignored the few stares thrown his way, at his white linen robes, the red crest of the pilgrim embroidered on the breast. The heat of the afternoon sun had caused him to throw back his hood, his hair sticking to his forehead unpleasantly. Relations between the aristocracy and the commoners were indifferent at best, chilly at the worst, these days. That wasn’t to say that no commoners embarked on pilgrimages to the Holy City. It was just that many couldn’t afford to do so, taking off for a year’s length of time, all so they could be cleansed in a rite of passage to the next stage of life. 

He had missed home, terribly. He also dreaded stepping through that front door, to what awaited him. One year. He had been given that time, at least, endless trudging from one sacred site to another, until his final destination at the Temple in Holy Ilium. It was at the summit of the mound where their god and goddess had supposedly laid to rest, that he pondered throwing himself off the temple complex, and escaping his fate for good. Such thoughts tended to cross one’s mind during periods of isolation.  
\---  
Once he was past the market district, it was only a matter of renting a cart that would take him to his house in the Blue Quarters. Much like their name, the residences in the Blue Quarters were uniformly decorated with tiles of lapis and azurite over white marble. It was one of Argos’ oldest neighborhoods, and Hector’s family had lived there for generations. There was a time when his forefathers had owned every single house on their street, but now they were reduced to the one; still impressive, still worn at the edges, still home. The familiar smells of jasmine and smoke welcomed him as he paid the cart driver and stepped through the front gate.  
\---

It was good to be out of his pilgrim’s clothes. He watched them pile onto the floor as he removed them, layer by layer, the dust and sand going with them. His bedroom looked untouched, exactly how he’d left it the day of his departure. Someone had come in to open the windows, so the room didn’t feel as stuffy as it would have been after a year of disuse. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, skin browned from the sun, his beard thick and scruffy. He could already hear his brothers teasing him about it.

There was nothing like a thorough bath in his own tub, in his own bathroom, after months of washing out of a bucket. The slide of the blade over his lathered skin felt satisfying, his beard falling in clumps into the sink. He was in the middle of rinsing off his clean-shaven face when he heard them.

“Hector!” Deiphobus’ voice crowed, heavy footsteps thumping into the bedroom.  
“Are you naked? Can I come in?” 

A second set of footsteps followed. “When did you get here, brother?” Polydorus. 

Hector heaved a sigh, unable to stop the smile already lifting the corners of his mouth as he emerged from the bathroom to greet his family. 

“Couldn’t wait for me to get dressed, could you?” he teased, spreading his arms wide to bring both his brothers into a year-awaited embrace. 

“Oh, it’s good to have you home,” Polydorus beamed. 

Deiphobus thumped Hector’s back good-naturedly. “So? How was it? Fuck any temple boys?”

“Dei,” Polydorus admonished. 

“What? I would,” Deiphobus retorted. “Especially in my last year as a bachelor!” 

“Did you sleep with any temple assistants, Hector?” Polydorus asked, looking genuinely curious. 

“Might I remind you,” Hector started, already mentally bracing himself for further foolish talk.  
“I was there on a pilgrimage.” 

“I’m sure Danaos and Io wouldn’t mind,” Deiphobus snorted, making Polydorus splutter in turn.  
“Bet the god and goddess themselves probably -”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Hector cut in, steering the brothers out of his room.  
“Let me get dressed, and we’ll talk at dinner. Where’s Helenus?” 

“Still at Temple,” Polydorus rolled his eyes. 

“Never leaves these days,” Deiphobus added. “He would eat and sleep there if he could.”

Hector nodded. It had been years since their youngest brother had been inducted into the Sons of Tros, foremost priesthood of Argos. The Sons were hand-picked at random from the oldest aristocratic families, ones that claimed descendancy from Tros, the priest-king who had founded and spread the doctrine of the god and goddess. Ever since Helenus had been chosen, he had been utterly devoted to his position as a priest - as he was expected to be. 

It was not an easy fate to accept, Sons of Tros were required to be celibate the entire time they served, and most served for their lifetimes. They were among the most respected positions in Argos, but could not leave the city, as they were seen as symbolic figures for Argos’ protection and continuity as a state. In a way, perhaps it had been good for Helenus. He had always been the most sheltered of the brothers. Yet, it was not a fate Hector envied, even though his own at the moment wasn’t so desirable, either.  
\---

“Alright, family meeting!” Deiphobus announced, when Helenus had arrived in time for dinner, still donning his priestly garb. Helenus had moved to give Hector a stiff hug and a quiet greeting, and now sat in his chair at the table, hands rested in his lap. Polydorus served dinner, spilling sauce onto the table, the plates clanging noisily together. Deiphobus insisted on standing, holding a large metal spoon which he banged against a pot to get everyone’s attention, even though there were only four of them and his voice was loud enough. Some things never changed. 

“Welcome back, Hector,” Deiphobus began. He jerked his chin at Polydorus, then made an irritated sound when the younger brother stared back blankly. 

“What?”

“The wine, Polydorus.” 

“Oh. Well, we drank the last of it yesterday.” 

“Well then! How are we supposed to -”

“You didn’t tell me to buy any, did you?”

Hector could feel a growing ache right in the center of his forehead as his brothers started to bicker. 

“Alright, alright,” he interrupted, motioning at them both to sit down.  
“Thank you for attempting a toast, Deiphobus. It’s really not necessary. I was not expecting a speech, either.”

Deiphobus grinned in reply. 

“So, before we eat, I would like to know if a decision has been made.” 

“Oh, it has,” Polydorus replied, smirking. “And I think you’ll like it, brother.” 

“We wouldn’t do you wrong,” Deiphobus added. “Right, Helenus?” 

Helenus glanced up from his soup. “I have nothing to do with this,” he replied, catching Hector’s eye. “As a Son of Tros, I am excused from the family vote -”

“What do you think of it though?” Hector interrupted. He knew Deiphobus and Polydorus had made the selection, but this was a family meeting. He had to take every opinion into account, if it was to mean anything. 

“ _Him_. What do you think of him?”

Helenus paused. He looked down at his soup, face flushing slightly. There was a conflicted look in his eyes when he finally faced Hector again. 

“He’s a Danaan,” he finally got out, sounding just the slightest bit sullen. 

“Really?” Hector glanced back and forth between Deiphobus and Polydorus. Interesting. 

“Yes, he’s a Danaan,” Polydorus confirmed, throwing Helenus a scowl. “But we did entertain the possibility even before you left, didn’t we?”

“Why a Danaan?” Hector asked, leaning back in his chair. He did not have the same prejudices towards Danaans as some of the more stringent Argives did. Their two peoples had existed together in Argos for centuries, the Danaans more or less abandoning their nomadic way of life as civilization rose to its peak. They had become excellent traders, the new wealth they brought in contributing to the city’s development. Only, the Argives would never admit it. New money, they sneered, behind the backs of the Danaans, who grew in riches while ancient families like Hector’s only had their reputation to hold on to. He knew what Deiphobus was going to say before the words had even left his brother’s mouth. 

“A lot has changed in a year, Hector,” Deiphobus replied. “The Danaans are starting to gain influence in the inner circles of the Regime. They are starting to get … active. And with their money, well …” 

“So I will be marrying for money? Is that it?” It wasn’t a challenge. It was a fair question, and he knew his brothers understood. 

“His name is Sthenelus,” Polydorus added, looking straight at Hector. “He is the oldest son of Menoetius. You know the name.” 

“Of course,” Hector replied, the smallest tinge of surprise rising. 

Menoetius was one of the richest men in Argos. One of those whom Argive families bent backwards to network with, secretly seething with jealousy at his success. He owned a large portion of northern Argos and most of the businesses, too. But he was a Danaan. They were never allowed to participate in the governing council, would never voice their ideas at the Assembly. 

“Are you impressed?” Polydorus asked, smiling hopefully. 

Hector thought about his answer for a moment. In truth, he was surprised a man like Menoetius would even take notice of their family. Yes, they could trace their lineage all the way back to the Holy City. One of their family members was a Son of Tros. It was no small thing, especially for a Danaan who had no such roots, no divine blood that would get him anywhere near a seat on the council. Danaans had money, but no political power. The oldest families of the Argives, well … quite the opposite. 

“I am,” Hector admitted. 

“We promised you someone suitable, big brother. And this Sthenelus is entirely promising. He is a seasoned warrior, for one. Just short of becoming a Knight Commander, and we all know how hard it is for Danaans to achieve knighthood. Very pious man. Handsome.” Deiphobus winked. 

Hector fought to conceal the sinking in his stomach. A suitable marriage arrangement, for him. 

“We’ve arranged for you to be formally introduced here, two weeks from now. He’s currently off on patrol with one of the eastern contingents, but he has agreed to see you when he returns.”

“Well.” Hector took a deep breath. 

He saw the understanding on Deiphobus’ and Polydorus’ faces. Even Helenus looked sympathetic. He couldn’t fault his brothers for this. They had agreed. He had put off marriage for too long, their father’s wishes swept aside. It was time to do right by his family, who had taken great pains to choose a good match for him, as was Argive custom. If his father had been alive, he would not be so lucky. Knowing Deiphobus and Polydorus, they had actually taken into account qualities that Hector liked in a person. It wasn’t all about political gain. 

But his brothers had ambitions, too, and he would be a terrible example if he put aside their dreams for his personal desires. Their father’s influence had always been more effective on the younger sons than it ever had been on Hector. Promising them their rightful place in the Regime, a seat of power over Argos. Deiphobus and Polydorus had worked very hard to restore their family’s legacy. Hector had to play his part, too. 

“Two weeks.” 

They started tucking into their meals, and the sounds of gagging could be heard throughout the dining area. 

“What is this, Polydorus!” Helenus complained. 

“I’m sorry,” Polydorus replied, giving them all sideways glances. “It seems even free labor in this household goes unappreciated.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had taken for granted the months he’d gone without needing to attend the Night Assembly. It was held once a month, and by Blessed Io, his luck had him just in time for this month’s gathering. According to custom, the head of the household usually served as representative. And as the oldest, well, Hector was the head of the household. 

This time, Deiphobus volunteered to tag along, as witness for Hector’s declaration of his return from pilgrimage. It was tedious business. He was required to register his name in the archive as a man eligible for marriage, and this would be included in the night’s announcements. 

“I really hate these things, you know,” Hector grumbled, to no one in particular, because Deiphobus was already walking ahead of him into the great stone building, its alcoves lit up with flaming sconces. The city hall was one of the most impressive in all Argos, a place for court proceedings, tax collection, and of course, the weekly Assembly and monthly Night Assembly. 

It was not unlike the market district, the hallways crowded with people, voices echoing around the vast space. The Night Assembly also served as a networking event, since a representative from almost every important family in Argos would be present at the time. Deiphobus was already weaving through the crowd, waving at people he knew. For someone whose family had been steadily losing wealth and social standing for generations, Deiphobus was generally well-liked and respected. He was a knight commander under High Lord Agamemnon, not a position to scoff at. 

It took some more weaving and dodging between bodies before they reached the archive, a library of sorts with a collection of manuscripts containing the names and information of citizens. 

“State your business,” said a scribe in front of an open tome larger than his head. 

“I’m here to declare completion of holy pilgrimage,” Hector replied, showing his pilgrim’s crest. 

The scribe sniffed and strode over to a separate shelf, browsing through it before lifting out another oversized manuscript.  
“Name?” 

“Hector son of Priam.” 

The scribe leafed through the pages, found the information Hector had registered exactly one year ago, and copied it onto the open tome in front of him. 

“Do you have a witness?”

“Here!” Deiphobus raised a hand. 

The scribe nodded and handed the quill to Hector so he could sign his name, followed by Deiphobus’ signature.  
\---

“That wasn’t so bad. Remember last time? We waited three hours,” Deiphobus remarked. 

“Can we go now?” Hector crossed his arms, looking around him in distaste. 

“Don’t you want to hear your name in the announcements? Anyway, there are some people I’d like to introduce you to. Sarpedon is here, too.” 

“Hmm. I suppose it can’t hurt to say hello.” Sarpedon was their cousin, and although Hector generally didn’t keep in contact with extended family, Sarpedon and Deiphobus had trained in the military together and were both now High Lord Agamemnon’s men. 

As they passed through the crowd again, Hector tuned in to the buzz surrounding him. If there was any place to catch up on current events, this was it. There was a lot of talk on the Myrmidons, one of the Achaean peoples who were rising to power. The general consensus seemed to be that the Myrmidons would eventually overtake Ilium itself; they had already conquered Dardanus, another important site that had once been Argive territory. 

There had definitely been some danger reaching Ilium itself, but pilgrims were still allowed by the Achaean government to attend the Temple, with special permission. Hector hadn’t heard anything about the Myrmidons while he was there, but he wasn’t surprised. The Achaeans were a warlike people made up of numerous tribes. Centuries ago, they had banded together and conquered most of the eastern peninsula. Now, it seemed they were more divided, but the individual tribes were fighting machines on their own. 

“Dei!” A mountain of a man had slung his arm around Deiphobus’ shoulders, and the two shared a quick embrace. 

“Look who’s back,” Deiphobus laughed, and Hector moved to greet their cousin. 

“Sarpedon. If it’s possible, you’ve gotten even larger.” This earned an amiable chuckle from Sarpedon. He was a wall of muscle, making Deiphobus next to him look like a boy. And Deiphobus was no small man himself. 

“I’m glad you’ve returned, cousin. You might have avoided some of the recent skirmishes that started up in the east.” Hector had always liked Sarpedon, with his easy demeanor and level head. 

“Word seems to be going around about more Achaean activity,” Hector replied.

Sarpedon sighed and shook his head. Unlike Deiphobus, who didn’t fight abroad that often, Sarpedon was usually on active duty in the east.  
“You’ll find that’s always the case, cousin.” 

“That bad?” 

“It doesn’t help that the Danaans often trade with them. Starting to get involved with their politics, too.”

“Easy now, Sar. My brother here is engaged to one,” Deiphobus cut in. 

Sarpedon raised an eyebrow in interest. “Is that true?” 

Hector hesitated. “Well - the engagement isn’t confirmed …”

“Technically it’s confirmed,” Deiphobus corrected. 

“Yes,” Hector grinned, no humor in it. “It’s true.” 

“May I ask who …?” 

“Sthenelus,” Deiphobus replied, ignoring Hector’s irritated glower. His brother had a big mouth. Always had. 

Sarpedon’s expression eased. “Ah. Well, you won’t be doing too bad with that one. Good soldier. His father though -” he grimaced. “And his brother.” 

Deiphobus frowned. “I haven’t heard anything about this.” 

“Consorting with the Achaeans. Got the Aristos Achaion himself asking for his hand in marriage.” 

Deiphobus’ eyebrows seemed to reach the top of his forehead. “The Warlord’s son?” 

Hector glanced between them in confusion, trying to keep up with the conversation. The Aristos Achaion? He recognized the term. But there were many men who claimed such a title among the Achaeans.  
“Which Warlord are we talking about here?” he inquired. 

Sarpedon and Deiphobus glanced at him at the same time.  
“The leader of the Myrmidons. They took Dardanus.” 

Well. That didn’t bide well for Sthenelus’ social status in Argos, if he had a brother who was a known Achaean sympathizer. But marrying an Achaean? Hector had never heard of it, at least not the Danaans who still had remaining family in Argos. 

“It’s all just rumors, though,” Deiphobus mused, looking at Sarpedon doubtfully. 

“Rumors have to come from somewhere,” Sarpedon shrugged. 

“I’ve never met the brother,” Deiphobus voiced, eyes on Hector as he did so.  
“But I’m sure it doesn’t take away from Sthenelus himself. He has a very good reputation in the army.” 

Hector’s collar suddenly felt too tight, the voices around him too loud. Sarpedon and Deiphobus were looking at him as though they could read his thoughts, and he wanted nothing more than to get away. 

“They’re starting the announcements!” someone yelled, and the crowd moved like a wave into the main hall, where a speaker shouted out the most recent events, the names of men who were of note. 

“Come on,” Deiphobus said. “I want to find out who joined my contingent.”

The shouting had already started, everyone quieting down to listen.

“First Contingent!” the speaker yelled. “Diogenes son of Alexias! Stephanos son of Antigonus! Polymelus son of Rhesus!”  
And so it went. It would be a while before they got to the ones who had completed pilgrimage. Hector didn’t see the point of staying around, but Deiphobus and Sarpedon were listening intently, nodding and discussing the names they recognized. 

Hector sighed and walked around the room, debating whether he should stay in the main hall or wander around on his own. He didn’t think Dei would mind if he left early, but he also didn’t want his younger brother going off with Sarpedon to get drunk at a nearby tavern when the Night Assembly concluded. They had serious matters to discuss the next day. 

He found himself venturing out to the side corridors, into the deeper recesses of the building where there were less people. It grew darker the further he walked, only a few sconces lit to show the pathway. He remembered doing this as a boy, when his father had taken him to his first Assembly, and he had found it so terribly dull that he wandered off, only to receive a scolding and a beating later on. 

The hallways looked different in the dark, the light playing off the walls and polished floor, dancing in the corners of his vision. He had forgotten that the building had a garden. It was at the very back, and there was no way to get to it unless he had access to the back offices. Still, there was a large balcony that overlooked the whole thing, and he could hear the quiet stream of the fountains, smell the freshness of the greens, inhaling the cool night air. 

There was someone else on the balcony, but he paid no heed, stepping out to the edge and looking down. Argos was so different from Ilium. Sometimes … just sometimes, he didn’t know what made it home. The Argives would never shut up about their claim on the Holy City, the final resting place of the god Danaos and his goddess, Io. Who cared whether an Argive or a Danaan or an Achaean wanted to call it theirs? He had served in two wars, and he still wasn’t sure what the point of it all was. 

“Would be nicer if there was music playing,” the other person on the balcony voiced. Hector turned his head to see who it was. A shorter man, lean, dressed in typical Danaan clothing. He couldn’t see his face very well, but he seemed quite young. 

“They already act like it’s some sort of party. Might as well make it one,” the Danaan explained. He smirked, then looked away again. 

Hector leaned on the edge of the balcony and gripped it, feeling the cool marble under his skin. 

“If that’s a party, I don’t want to know what a full-on festival is like,” he replied. 

The Danaan scoffed.

“What’s a Danaan doing here anyway?” He paused, quickly correcting himself.  
“Don’t take that the wrong way. I wasn’t implying that you shouldn’t be here.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” the Danaan replied, voice laced in quiet amusement.  
“I was accompanying my father. Business ventures, you know.” He sighed, as though there wasn’t anything more upsetting. 

“Exciting,” Hector remarked, and turned to share a knowing smile with the other man. 

Things really had changed in the past year. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a Danaan attend Night Assembly, although plenty of them enlisted in the army and had their names called out in this very building. 

The Danaan moved closer so they stood next to each other, facing the garden below them. They said nothing for a while, until Hector shifted and the Danaan caught sight of his pilgrim’s crest, pinned onto his chest. Hector cleared his throat, aware of the other man’s eyes on the gleaming symbol. 

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” the Danaan murmured, lifting his eyes to meet Hector’s. 

“Why?” Hector couldn’t stop the small frown beginning to form on his face. 

The Danaan shrugged. “It’s not every day I meet someone who has returned from the Holy City.” His eyes shone as he mentioned it, the smallest flicker of excitement.

“Argos is as good a place as any,” Hector mumbled, unable to keep the gruffness from his voice. 

This brought on a smile from the other man, who studied Hector, leaning back a little in surprise.  
“I take it the Holy City was not to your expectations?” 

“I wish people would stop calling it that. Ilium. It’s a city like any other.” 

“A city like any other, that people have shed blood over for centuries.” 

“You’ve been?”

The Danaan smiled wider, and Hector found himself staring back.  
“Even Danaans deserve a place in the Holy City, you know.” But his tone was light and mirthful, not at all an argument about his people’s rights.

“One could say your people were the original followers of Danaos. That if anyone deserved a place among the gods, it would be his loyal pupils.” 

“Is that what you say?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Hector crossed his arms, the chill wind suddenly getting to him. There was a heavy feeling inside him, the knowledge that these were words he could never say to his own people. Instead, he was having this conversation in the dark, with a stranger from another tribe, whose lives the Argives had made difficult for so long. 

“Perhaps it doesn’t. And perhaps … all that matters is the blood that was spilled. If men can go so far to achieve personal glory, then they can go far to make a name for their families. Don’t you think?” 

Hector looked at the Danaan, really looked at him. The expression on the other man’s face, expectant, proud, appraising. It was like he could see right through Hector. 

“You’re implying that Ilium is only a means for the old families to find a seat of power above the rest.”

“It is a lot to promise, is it not? A place of honor at the side of Danaos and Io. A land to plant roots, the prize that our ancestors left behind.”

“An empty promise,” Hector whispered. 

The Danaan watched him. “Not if you find meaning inside it. And make it your own.” 

And Hector had an inkling of who he was talking to. Sarpedon’s words echoed through his head. 

“Then I wish you luck,” Hector replied. The Danaan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. 

“Not everyone would find something good in a union with a Warlord’s son.” 

He waited for a retort, to be told that he was mistaken. But the Danaan, or should he say, Menoetius’ youngest son, regarded him with quiet acknowledgment.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The curtains were thrown back, letting in a burst of sunlight that hit his face. He groaned and turned over, drawing the covers up around him. 

“Hector,” Polydorus’ urgent voice, a hand shaking him. 

It had been a long enough night for him, a long enough year, and he still couldn’t get the rest he needed. 

“They’re calling everyone to the citadel,” Polydorus insisted. “All citizen men. We have to go, Hector.”  
Even as he spoke, Hector could hear the clatter outside, the city guard in full armor roaming the neighborhoods. It wasn’t long before the trumpet calls cried out, the signal of gathering before the high lords of the council. 

Hector hastily got dressed and followed an anxious Polydorus outside. They bumped into others, a mass of people already forming on their way to the citadel of Argos, the heart of the city. Hector had been there twice before on an occasion like this, and it had not been good. 

They met Deiphobus on the way, who only expressed confusion at what was happening around them. 

“Why do I suspect Helenus has been keeping something from us?” Polydorus questioned, frowning. 

“But he never said anything -” Deiphobus started. 

“Exactly.” Polydorus pointed at the top of the citadel, where members of the council were gathered. High Lord Agamemnon stood at the center of it all, a formidable man who commanded no less than the utmost respect. Yet, a little behind him, a line of white-clad figures stood, still and silent. Hector squinted up at them, shielding his eyes from the glaring light of day. 

The Sons of Tros. Among them, his own brother, face a stony mask like the other priests, deliberately avoiding searching the crowd for familiar faces. Why would the priesthood be involved in this? 

The crowd quieted down as Agamemnon moved forward to speak. The High Lord faced his people, towering over the other members of the council. Hector noticed out of the corner of his eye Deiphobus straightening his stance, like a soldier being called to attention. Some habits never died. 

They waited for the High Lord, but curiously enough, he did not speak. Instead, he moved aside, and Polydorus gripped Hector’s arm, more in shock than anything. Another man approached the crowd in Agamemnon’s stead, a stocky old man with a balding head and white beard. Hector recognized him from the embellishments on his priest’s robe. Chryses, High Priest of the Sons of Tros. 

Hector could practically feel the crowd’s bewilderment. The Sons of Tros, the most prominent priesthood in Argos, were charged with ensuring the state’s continuity through ceremony and ritual activity. They carried out the most important festivals, and continued Tros’ legacy by preaching the faith of Danaos and Io, god and goddess of the Argives and Danaans. They were not, in any way, involved with the council’s decisions. Or at least … that was what most people thought. 

“Men of Argos,” Chryses’ voice bellowed, a golden voice that rang out through the citadel, reaching every citizen who stood before him. 

“By the will of the Hero Danaos, and the Lady Io, I speak to you.  
For centuries we have endured the chaos of the wretched Achaeans. They take our cities, they take our sons. We are but the remnants of a once great nation, an empire that stretched out to the far corners of the world, sanctioned by the gods themselves.  
I call to you, descendants of the god, that you wrest Ilium from the cruel hands of the Achaeans, that you bring to us what we have waited for.”

There was a flurry of whispers and mutterings all around, but the faces of the crowd were transfixed, gleaming eyes full of hope as they waited on Chryses’ next words. 

“The Achaeans may hide behind their masks of strength, but they do not have the will of the gods behind them. We of Argos will answer a greater calling, we will march towards the Holy City, and with our blood we will take back what the Achaeans have stolen from us.”

The mutterings grew louder, the masses roused as Chryses’ voice only grew in strength, its raw determination sounding out. 

“We will win _kleos_.”

The word. If he had failed to win over the crowd before, he had his chance now. 

“The highest glory, a place in the heavens alongside our ancestors, a seat for our sons and daughters for generations to come.” 

Several people started to cheer at the statement, until it spread throughout the crowd, for Chryses had gotten to the very core of the people. Despite their differences, they paid homage to the same gods, and it was this final destiny that rested in each heart, Argive and Danaan alike. 

“Through the centuries we have fought the Achaeans, we have protected our homes, our trade, and our people. But it is now that we serve a divine purpose, and reclaim our ancestral land. By the will of Danaos and Io, I call for the Holy War!”

The citadel had erupted into a wall of noise as the crowd roared their approval, and Hector found himself in a daze, the scene around him blurred, Deiphobus screaming along with the others, Polydorus watching thoughtfully. In the distance, he spotted Menoetius, standing among the other Danaans, and next to him, the one he had met the night before. In that split second, their eyes met, and Menoetius’ son smiled a grim little smile, his words from the night before resurfacing through Hector’s mind. 

A holy war, for Ilium. Gods have mercy.


	2. Chapter 2

They had been marching for days. In some ways, taking up his helm again had been almost a relief. This was something he knew like the back of his own hand. Yet, there was that familiar ache, the restlessness of unending days and nights from one camp to another. They tended to blend together, the days, although if there ever was a time to keep a clear head, it was this. 

This was the first time he had ever marched alongside Agamemnon’s Knights. The elite army had gained prominence as the High Lord’s influence grew in Argos proper. Most of what he knew about it was from Deiphobus’ accounts, but Agamemnon’s army remained the most successful in all Argos, staving off raids from the Achaeans, and steadily regaining several of their lost territories. But they had not won a city yet. This war was a campaign unlike any other. And they would need the Danaans, this time.

They reached the frontier before daybreak, pausing to assess the Argive banners already in place, where they would meet the first contingents of the army that had departed for Lyrnessus. The town lay on the road to Dardanus, which the Myrmidons had conquered not too long ago. They set up camp alongside the tents that were already there, Hector overseeing the infantry while the generals reconvened in the main tent. 

“What are they doing here?” sneered a younger soldier, jerking his head at a group of Danaan cavalrymen, who kept to themselves and tended to their horses. The other soldiers around them turned to look, an air of tension arising. 

“How long do you intend to gawk?” Hector questioned, circling the men and throwing a look at the unfinished tents, the weapons that needed sharpening.  
“I suppose we should sacrifice precious time in favor of our Danaan friends, should we not?” 

The soldiers kept their heads down at the words and continued their work, unspeaking, but Hector knew it had been close. It would take more than swift reprimands to quiet the hostility between the Argive and Danaan troops. He would have to speak with General Idomeneus when he had the chance. 

“Captain!” came a greeting, and the sound of a soldier snapping into salute. Hector turned and met the grinning face of none other than Deiphobus, clad in full armor, his knight’s emblem across the chest. A swell of relief burst through, just then, finally a familiar face among these green soldiers he had never worked with. 

“Knight Commander,” he greeted, and Deiphobus pulled him into a hug, arms tightening around him. The soldiers in Hector’s unit couldn’t resist sneaking stares at Deiphobus. The knights enjoyed a somewhat heroic reputation, career soldiers who had been recruited for their fighting prowess in contrast to the general army, who were drafted. Hector himself had never expressed interest in knighthood. He’d fought wars, survived, and gone home. He certainly hadn’t intended to do it again. The pilgrimage had been him handing over his shield, ready for a different kind of life. But that was not the world he lived in, apparently. 

“Walk with me,” Deiphobus said, taking Hector’s arm and leading him to the generals’ tent. 

“How many days until the Achaeans arrive?” Hector questioned.

“No more than three. Our scouts returned last night, having seen the first line of troops over the river. Once they cross, they will come to us swiftly.” 

“Any idea how the generals intend to approach this?” 

Deiphobus hesitated. “I’ve fought alongside Danaans before, Hector. But these green troops … it’s going to take quite a bit to get them in working order.”

Hector motioned towards the Danaan cavalry. “They tend to separate themselves from the others, do they not? We’ll have to change that.” 

“It’s not as easy as it looks. Not to mention … this is the first time a Danaan has been given command of a unit.” 

“A Danaan commander?” Hector frowned. 

At Deiphobus’ sheepish look, his perturbation grew.  
“You don’t mean to say …”

“Sthenelus,” Deiphobus confirmed. “He became Knight Commander before the campaign was launched.” 

Hector sighed. “So he’s here.” 

“In the tent, with the generals.” Deiphobus shrugged. “So you do get to meet him, after all.” 

Their initial meeting had been delayed when the High Priest made his announcement to the people of Argos. Sthenelus had been unable to return in time, finishing up his patrols with the other troops outside Argos as any remaining diplomatic arrangements with the Achaeans were cut off for good. Hector had thought … well, he hadn’t been too disappointed that it would be put off even further. He wondered if Sthenelus felt the same. 

“This could give you a chance to set an example for your men,” Deiphobus advised. Hector looked at his brother then, proud and stern in his armor, every bit the commander he was; though he never quite lost the twinkle in his eye. Deiphobus had always been a military man. He actually enjoyed the fight, enjoyed rapport with the men under his command, and held a great love for his homeland. But he was still Hector’s little brother. Even in moments of disagreement, they had always listened to each other. 

“I can see that,” Hector conceded. He was a senior officer, one of General Idomeneus’ captains, and was responsible for how his unit functioned under the general’s command. If he could forge a working relationship with a Danaan commander, it would be a good start to having their men fighting side by side. Even if that commander was the man he was supposed to marry, not someone he had pictured collaborating with during battle. 

By nightfall, the men had set up their cooking supplies and were polishing their armor, mending their boots, singing work songs as they prepared to retire. Hector cast a weary eye over them; some were veterans from previous wars, like himself, but the others … young, barely into adulthood, untrained. He wondered how many of them had volunteered after hearing Chryses’ speech at the citadel. 

He received a summons from General Idomeneus to join the meeting at the main tent. It was General Idomeneus whom he had fought under, the entire time he had served in the army. There wasn’t another man he would follow. The general was a commoner who had earned his rank through decades of protecting his homeland, decades of dedicated service. 

When Hector’s father had been alive, they’d had many arguments about it. His father had not wanted him to be a part of the common soldiery. Knighthood would get him a higher standing among his peers. But in his younger days - he smiled sadly at the thought - he had done anything to anger his father. He was the oldest, he would marry first, and if their family ever held sway in council, he would be the one in the seat. But the spirit of rebelliousness had held him ever since he was a boy, wanting to break away from it all, and unable to. So he picked his battles and fought his father whenever he could. Now his father was long gone, and the fate of their family was up to him.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tent was more crowded than he expected, though he spotted General Idomeneus immediately, crouched over a map of the Dardanian territory, red markers symbolizing the land held by the Achaeans, white to show the location of the Argive camps. General Deucalion, leader of the knights, stood opposite him, and the two men muttered together as they studied the map. In the far corner of the tent, the knight commanders under Deucalion were arguing amongst themselves. 

“General,” Hector saluted, first to Idomeneus, and then to Deucalion. 

“Captain. It has come to my attention that you are here with your brother, Knight Commander Deiphobus.” Idomeneus shot a look towards the other side of the tent, where Deiphobus was attempting to calm the other men.

“Unusual,” Deucalion remarked. He eyed Hector. “One brother in the general army, the other a knight.” 

“An opportunity for us,” Idomeneus countered. He clapped a hand on Hector’s shoulder. “Our two armies must work together if we are to have any hope against the Achaeans.” 

“The knights have fought exclusively for too long,” Deucalion agreed. 

“And keeping them separate is not an option?” Hector queried. 

Idomeneus and Deucalion shared a look. “If this was one battle, so be it. But we have an entire campaign to think of. I predict a merging between the two armies, especially since the High Priest’s talk of _kleos_ affects us all. Lyrnessus is only the first step towards recapturing Dardanus.” 

Hector could see their point. There was a pause in the arguing as the tent was held wide to accommodate more people. He noticed Deiphobus trying to catch his eye, and froze as more Danaans entered the tent. Deiphobus’ gaze led Hector to a tall Danaan in full armor, but it wasn’t him who had caught Hector’s attention. Looking back at him was the younger brother he had spoken with at the Night Assembly, eyes flared in recognition. 

“Knight Commander Sthenelus,” Deiphobus greeted, loudly, and Hector finally took a look at the man he was engaged to. He definitely held himself like a man accustomed to battle, wearing that armor like a second skin. He was nearly a head taller than his younger brother, his features proud and handsome. Hector studied him, warily, and fought the rapid beating of his heart when Sthenelus strode over, having noticed him.  
\---

“Not the circumstances I expected to meet you under,” Sthenelus said, allowing a small smile, though his eyes remained unreadable. He reached out a hand to clasp Hector’s, but they never broke their gaze. 

“Surely the captain thought he had finished with the army when he completed his pilgrimage to Ilium,” came a wry voice, and Hector could see a flash of irritation on Sthenelus’ face as he turned to his brother. 

“My younger brother, Patroclus,” Sthenelus introduced. 

Patroclus smiled, but said nothing further. Hector looked back and forth between the brothers.  
“Brave of you, to accompany your brother on the battleground,” he remarked.

Sthenelus waved it away. “Our father’s request.”

Of course. Menoetius would want both sons involved in the campaign against the Achaeans, considering how active he’d become in Argive social circles. Hector wondered what that meant for Patroclus’ plan to marry an Achaean military leader, without having anticipated the priesthood’s announcement of the holy war. The stakes had changed.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Their scouts had spotted the first of the Achaeans crossing the river, and it wasn’t long before they would need to take up arms to defend Lyrnessus. The camp was filled with the sound of weapons, the shouts of the commanders as the men practiced their drills over and over again. They were not sufficiently prepared. But it had been a start, both Argives and Danaans in the lines side by side, overseen by both generals. 

Hector had been ruminating over plans to get his and Sthenelus’ men posted on Lyrnessus’ borders, so that the town would be protected on all sides, should the Achaeans defeat the troops awaiting them at the river’s edge. He’d run it over with Deiphobus, and his brother agreed that their best chance was to ensure all sides were covered. The land around Lyrnessus was flat, making it ideal for fighting, but it also meant there weren’t many places to hide. At least the Achaeans would not be able to plan an ambush without them catching wind of it, but their enemy still had the upper hand, being better trained than the Argives and Danaans. Their strength would be in numbers. 

“Tell me the truth,” Hector had said, the night before, exhausted from lack of sleep. “Do we have a chance against them?” 

Deiphobus had rubbed a hand over his eyes, the lids heavy.  
“Our plan is sound,” he said. “But there is so much - If we had been given months. A year, perhaps. But we’ve rushed into this. And our men do not have the experience. There will be losses, Hector. We knew this going in.”

“Could we not have waited a year?” Hector demanded.

Deiphobus frowned. “Lyrnessus is important. If we would have any chance of winning Dardanus from the Achaeans, we can’t let them take Lyrnessus too. They already control the roads. The only other way to Ilium is by sea, and you know the state our navy is in.” 

It was true, their naval troops were in no shape to fight the Achaeans, and they would have to buy the council time to enlist the help of their neighboring states. 

“There has to be a way to win this,” Hector mused. 

“We have an estimate of their numbers. They are disciplined. Experienced. And they know we are not. The fact that they haven’t sent a large contingent speaks volumes of how they perceive us.” 

“What if they send reinforcements from the army in Dardanus? Then we’ll be outnumbered, _and_ outmatched.”

This made Deiphobus sit up straighter, looking down at the map, studying it like a puzzle he didn’t quite know how to solve. The silence between them stretched out, and Hector could tell his brother grew more troubled by the minute.  
\--------------------------------------

“I wouldn’t have guessed you had military experience,” Hector remarked as he came across Patroclus, who was overseeing the training of the Danaans under his brother. Patroclus threw him a look over his shoulder, mouth quirking up at the words. 

“How did you think I managed to worm my way into the Warlord’s inner circle?” he smirked. “Of course, things were a little different then. I doubt there will be any communication between our two nations any longer, unless it is a parley to retrieve the dead.”

Hector glanced around at the faces of the Danaan soldiers who trained in the phalanx formation, shields in a line of bright colors, their unprotected right sides joined to the next man.  
“You shouldn’t be telling me this, you know.” 

This only made Patroclus’ smile widen, though there really wasn’t any humor in it.  
“It is difficult to gain support from my brother’s men,” he admitted. “Especially when they already have preconceived notions of me. Although,” he sighed and pushed back his hair. “I have brought it on myself.”

Hector glanced at the other man from the corner of his eye. There was something about how Patroclus spoke, unabashedly, how he carried himself. He was self-assured, unquestioning. Hector felt the slightest suspicion that Patroclus had no intention of giving up his arrangements with the Myrmidons. It was why it didn’t matter to him what his fellow Danaans thought. He had made his sacrifice, and if they didn’t win the battle, his family still had a place in Ilium, under Achaean rule. It wasn’t quite treachery. But it was opportunistic. Hector found himself studying the man even more intently. 

Find meaning, and make it your own, Patroclus had said, that night on the balcony. A stranger’s words, yet they rang in Hector’s head, and he suddenly wasn’t able to think of anything else. But why was Patroclus so sure they wouldn’t win against the Achaeans? 

“Perhaps there’s something you’re not telling me,” Hector voiced. 

“And perhaps you are not the person who has to be told,” Patroclus replied, giving him another one of those looks, like Hector’s thoughts were plain as day, whereas Patroclus … it was hard to tell what went on in that mind. 

“Where is your brother?” Hector asked, suddenly hyper-aware that Sthenelus had left Patroclus to oversee the men, men who did not trust the younger brother or want to follow him. It was beginning to dawn on him what had transpired, and he noticed Patroclus had picked up on it, meeting his eyes head-on. 

“I did try to persuade him,” Patroclus replied. “But I’m sure you’ll find, when you are married to him - my brother can be rather obstinate.”  
\--------------------------------------

“Dei!” Hector yelled, pushing past the other men until he reached his brother. 

Deiphobus was in a deep discussion with the generals, and whirled round in confusion at the sound of his name.  
“What is it, Hector? What’s happened?” 

“What did you say to him?” Hector demanded, taking Deiphobus by the arm. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Did you say anything to Sthenelus, about what we discussed last night?” 

This made Deiphobus hesitate. “Well … I did go to him, but only to ask for ideas. Why? Did he approach you?” 

Hector growled in frustration, his head pounding. There was a reason snap decisions were not made in the army without agreement on all sides, and this was why. 

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

Hector turned to one of the men he recognized from his own unit. “Send someone out for Knight Commander Sthenelus. He is required at the generals’ tent.” 

The man saluted and left. 

They waited, but Sthenelus did not return. Instead, a few of Hector’s men arrived to report that the Knight Commander had taken a contingent of Danaans with him past the road from Lyrnessus to Dardanus. 

“Why would he do such a thing?” Deiphobus asked. “It’s a suicide mission!” 

“He is leading the Danaans to glory. Or at least, that’s what he thinks he’s doing.” 

Sthenelus must have made the decision after Deiphobus went to him the previous night, asking about the Achaean army in Dardanus. A Danaan who had made the rank of Knight Commander had not done so without taking risks. But this - Sthenelus had thought to bring the Danaans to Dardanus itself, causing a ruckus so that the Achaean army would not be able to send reinforcements to Lyrnessus, if the Argives won. By doing so, he had severely underestimated how equally matched they would be. He had also alienated the Argive soldiers who had been steadily cooperating with the Danaan troops until then. 

There was a better way. But Sthenelus had not stuck around to hear it. Hector doubted he was a man inclined to listen, if this was how it had gone only days after meeting him. 

“He is going to lose our Danaan troops, and there will be no one to send aid if we are defeated here,” Deiphobus cried, gripping his head in frustration. 

“We have to send someone to get him back,” Hector replied. 

“Too late,” a voice muttered, and they turned to see Patroclus entering the tent.  
“He’ll be well on his way to Dardanus by now. My brother was never without ambition.” 

“This is going to be a disaster,” Deiphobus breathed.  
Then he seemed to make up his mind, features set in determination.  
“I will secure the town borders. We will need a defensive line at all entrances. The Achaeans are coming. You two -” he glanced at Hector and Patroclus.  
“You will ensure our men are ready for battle. We will bring them to the river.”

Deiphobus left to discuss the latest developments with the generals, leaving Hector and Patroclus alone in the tent. 

“I think now’s a good time for a tour of Lyrnessus,” Hector remarked. 

It was the first time he saw Patroclus confused. 

“You have something else in mind,” Patroclus guessed, and turned around to where Deiphobus had left. He looked at the map, at the borders of the town Deiphobus was working to secure. Hector could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Then Patroclus looked up again, a glint in his eye as he worked out the possibilities. 

“A tour of Lyrnessus, you say? Lead the way.”  
\--------------------------------------

They walked through the town, the streets quiet and deserted, residents barred in their homes or evacuated to neighboring villages. The narrow lanes were typical of the eastern style, only wide enough for a few people at a time. Hector studied the scene quietly, already imagining how Deiphobus would form the defensive lines on the borders, the northern and northwestern sides of the town where the Achaeans would hit first. 

“Your brother will agree to this?” Patroclus questioned.

“He won’t be happy that we’ve deviated from the plan yet again. But Deiphobus is no fool.”

At Patroclus’ nod, Hector drew out a piece of parchment and laid it on the ground. He outlined the main streets of the town, a large X marking where their troops would be waiting. 

“You can get your men to work with mine?” 

“I can do it,” Patroclus replied. 

“They’ll be angry they weren’t chosen to go with your brother. And the Argives … there will be hostility when they find out they were excluded from an urgent mission.”

“I can do it,” Patroclus said, again. 

They stared at each other, each taking the other’s measure. 

“We have tonight,” Hector said. “Everything counts on this.” 

It made Patroclus look at him with something akin to respect.  
“I think you would be wasted on my brother,” he replied, ignoring how Hector blanched at the blunt words. “You clearly know what you’re doing.” 

“And Sthenelus doesn’t?” 

“Sthenelus has much to prove. We both do. It is a fate we uphold simply by being Danaans in an Argive world.” 

“And you think you will prove your worth by running off to the Achaeans?” 

He watched as Patroclus stiffened, expression smoothing out into a mask. 

“What if something else was proven to you instead?” 

“And what is that?” 

“That our two sides can work together. We may have been at odds for centuries, but the Achaeans are our common enemy. Say what you will, Patroclus. Argos is your home.” 

“ _Home_ is not a location. It is where my family is.” 

“Then wait until tonight. Then you make a decision.” 

Patroclus was silent for a while, staring down at Hector and the plan that they had formed, a plan that would hopefully save them from ruin. 

“Let’s run it over again.”  
\---------------------

He had thought of it when Deiphobus had mentioned securing the borders. His brother was right, it was a sound idea. They’d thought it to be their best chance against warriors who outweighed them in skill and prowess. But what did one do, when the opponent was superior on all sides? Meet them halfway, with courage and honor, hoping they would never make it to Lyrnessus to capture the town? 

Or they could give them the town. 

They could watch as the Achaeans marched in, another victory in their hands. They could watch as the enemy marched through the narrow streets, three to four men at a time, while they lay in wait. In that small, crowded space, unfit for battle, who knew which side the odds favored? Except, Hector’s men and Patroclus’ men would know their surroundings, while the Achaeans remained unfamiliar. The Achaeans underestimated them, and they had to take it, and turn the tables against them.  
\---

It had been a rough day of drills, but now the sun had set, the streets shadowed as they crouched in each corner, Danaan next to Argive, waiting with bated breath. There would be no trumpet call, only one of Deiphobus’ scouts to signal the arrival of the Achaeans. Word had reached them that the Achaeans had cut through their men at the river. It was only a matter of time, before the hold on Lyrnessus’ borders broke loose, Deiphobus and his troops leading the Achaeans right into the town.

Hector watched over the soldiers ahead of him, positioned in a dark alley behind them, only Patroclus at his side. He glanced down at the other man, thinking how he’d at first seen a resemblance with Sthenelus, but now could find none at all. They were neither similar in appearance nor demeanor, but Patroclus had shown himself a far shrewder mind than he was given credit for. 

“Perhaps there is a chance we will succeed,” Patroclus voiced, quietly assessing the soldiers before them, wordlessly counting each head. 

“I think you came to terms with that thought long before we brought our men here,” Hector replied. 

“We don’t know if the Achaeans have any surprises up their sleeves.”

“You’ve spent some time among them, what do you think?” 

Patroclus met Hector’s gaze, seeming to search at him. 

“You don’t think it a good idea for me to act on my decision.” 

“I think you’re acting like someone who has nothing to lose. When in actuality, you have everything to lose.” 

“We barely know each other,” Patroclus reminded him. 

“Yet we know what we stand for. In the short time I have known you, Patroclus, I have learned that you are ambitious and determined. You do not come across to me as someone who is willing to entrust your fate blindly. Certainly not to a military leader who may very well run your family’s legacy into the ground.” 

“You assume Argos’ Holy War will turn out well for us.” 

“Look at what we have done. We have taken something that was set up to fail, yet the victory may be ours tonight.”

“You think I don’t know the risks? If something happens with the Achaeans, I will be shunned by my own people.” 

“Then listen to your instincts.” 

“I have fought tooth and nail to ensure we are no longer treated as pesky _Danaans_. Our people have a real hope of finally taking our place beside the Argives, having a say in what becomes of our homeland.”

“And everything you have worked for will mean nothing if the Achaeans decide they no longer need you.” 

Patroclus huffed in frustration. 

“Marry me.” 

He could hear the sharp intake of the other man’s breath, see the shock plain on his face. 

“Hector -”

“I would not ask if I didn’t believe in what we could give each other.” 

“You are asking me to _fuck over_ my own brother.” 

Hector turned and gripped Patroclus’ sides, looking him square in the face. 

“You know me. You know my family. Why, you knew that very night, didn’t you? When we first met each other?”

He could hear the rise and fall of Patroclus’ breath, see the urgency in his eyes. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t think of it, even for a second. How you and I could make something, build something, a legacy that your brother would never be able to do. _You_ can do it. Only you.” 

He heard quiet laughter, then, a low chuckle that Patroclus couldn’t keep contained, as if he didn’t quite know what else to do. 

“My brother would never forgive me. And my father …” 

But, in those eyes, Hector could see something he had recognized in himself for most of his life. Perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps it would make things worse, at first. But he had feared his fate for so long, a lifetime with a stranger his family had chosen, no voice of his own. It was time he made his own choices. It was time he take his fate, and make it his own.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of hoofbeats against the dirt road rang out through the countryside as the army marched, heads held high, voices lifted in their victory chant. The Argive standard waved above them, its bright colors a stark contrast against the pale blue of the sky. Homewards. They had braved through the night, and earned their place in history, the first among many battles to come. 

There had been a mere hair’s breadth between salvation and total defeat, waiting under cover of night as Deiphobus led his men against the enemy, baiting them, steering them into the town like goats herded into a pen. The fighting had been quick, and in the heat of it all it became unclear who would emerge victorious. 

But Hector remembered the cries of his men as the Achaeans fell one by one, in that swarm of confusion, remembered the moment his spirit lifted to make way for relief. And so he marched, Deiphobus by his side, soldier and knight, to be welcomed into the gates of Argos.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was difficult not to join in the festivities with this uplifting air about them, The Battle of Lyrnessus still discussed with much excitement among the people, little flags bearing the emblem of the knights found on the doorways of every household. 

Hector had heard snippets of conversation here and there as he returned from the market district. It had been Deiphobus’ idea; they’d done this as children, sneaking out of the house on market days when their mother was too preoccupied to notice, running through the back alleys to reach the docks, following the smell of saltwater and fish. They would buy fish cakes by the stick and climb up to the roof of the market’s main tower, watching the ships arrive at the harbor. And then they would pick a color, counting each ship until one of them won.

Now, they were too large to fit on that tiny ledge on the roof together, and they had other things more important to do than counting how many red or black ships there were. But one look at Deiphobus told him that the memory wasn’t gone, even when the noisy, crowded stalls weren’t quite the wonderland they had been to two small children. 

The years might have passed, but a thought came to Hector’s mind that some things would always stay the same. 

“You went to market, didn’t you?” Polydorus exclaimed, and it reminded him of how their younger brother had sulked as a boy, when he found out he had missed all the fun. Poor Polydorus, their mother’s favorite, who had always been forced to stay home and help her with the chores. Meanwhile, Helenus had never been bothered, holed up in his room, even though these days he was more inclined to spend all his time at the Temple of Tros. 

“Blessed Io, I swear it gets more crowded every year!” Deiphobus complained, even though the pink in his cheeks and his seablown hair betrayed how much of a good time he’d had. 

“Yes, just like this kitchen when you’re in it,” Polydorus replied, swatting Deiphobus away with doughy fingers. 

“Well, _somebody’s_ in a mood,” Deiphobus muttered at Hector. 

Hector waited for Deiphobus to saunter away, until he was left alone with Polydorus in the kitchen. He watched for a while as Polydorus arranged lumps of misshapen dough on a tray, and was brought back to when their mother had done the exact same thing, except, well, hers hadn’t looked like a child had broken into the kitchen and gotten at the ingredients. 

“So,” Hector started. He put his hands in his pockets, sighing. Gods help him, why did he always have to be the peacemaker? It should have been Deiphobus, but the latter was too oblivious to notice anything amiss. 

“Is Helenus coming home this evening?” 

“Don’t know,” Polydorus replied, shortly. “Temple must be terribly exciting, I wouldn’t want to keep him from it.” 

Polydorus and Helenus had always been close, the way Hector and Deiphobus were, but over the years they had been drifting apart. Hector suspected it had to do with the priesthood, but whatever either of their grievances with each other were, it remained unknown. 

“You know he is sworn to the priesthood above anything else. He couldn’t have told us.” 

“He could’ve told me!” Polydorus insisted, dumping the tray into the oven. His face fell. “He would’ve told me. But I suppose he has different priorities, now.” 

“I think we were all surprised that the Sons of Tros had anything to do with the council’s decision. The High Priest, announcing war? Unheard of.” 

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Polydorus agreed. “Why now? Why this war? We’ve had hundreds of battles with the Achaeans, but to put a name to it? To mention _kleos_?” 

“The Myrmidons taking Dardanus,” Hector offered. “Ilium has been under Achaean control for so long, but when they moved on to other places important to Argive history, well … perhaps it was the last straw?” 

“There’s something about it I’m not buying,” Polydorus frowned. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “If he would only talk to me. He must see Chryses every day, he must _know_ something.” 

“Polydorus,” Hector said, and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.   
“He is one of ours. But he also has one of the most coveted positions in Argos. There is a part of his life he simply cannot share with us, and sometimes … all we can do is accept it.”

“I know,” Polydorus groaned. “It’s just - he’s in a position where he can see things the rest of us can’t, and - he knew you would go to war. He knew and didn’t say anything. I feel like he’s such a stranger sometimes.”

“He’s grown up. We all have. You have to take him as he is, brother, or you’ll drive him away even further.” 

“What if you hadn’t won at Lyrnessus?” 

Hector frowned down at Polydorus, realizing there was even more that had gone unspoken between them. 

“I would have ... lost both of you. And Helenus, too. In a different way.”

“But that didn’t happen. And it isn’t your responsibility to find out why we were sent off to fight.”

Sometimes he forgot how young Polydorus still was. His brother had never enrolled in military training, instead finishing his schooling and landing a position as a public servant. He served the members of the council, but it was his dream that he would rise through the ranks and one day hold enough influence to win a seat himself. What Deiphobus did in the army, Polydorus did in the government. Except, he also had the additional responsibility of maintaining upkeep of their household when the other brothers weren’t home. 

“Ugh, don’t mind me. I’ve just been wallowing a little.”

“Just a little,” Hector teased. Polydorus cracked a small smile, his usually affable demeanor returning.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could remember the last time he’d been to the estate in Simoeis, the one piece of land their father had refused to let go. Even as the number of servants they had depleted over the years, even as the building went into disrepair … it had been a proud statement of their lineage, the land their forefathers had laid claim to when Tros had set foot on Argive soil. He’d never cared much for the countryside as a boy, too far away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

Yet, looking back, the estate had been home to generation after generation, seen births and deaths. And his parents were laid to rest here. There was a lot of work to be done, work he was tasked to complete. In truth, he hadn’t ever thought to inherit the rights to this place, but things were different now. It was up to him to make it habitable again, a home away from home, when the city became too much, demanded too much.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Family meeting!” Deiphobus boomed. 

They were all gathered together, even Helenus, and the words ran over and over again in Hector’s head. He had been the one to call this meeting, because there was one thing left unfinished. 

“First of all, the rights to the estate are now in my name,” he announced. 

Deiphobus gave a little whoop. “Fuck the government,” he hooted, throwing Polydorus an apologetic look. The estate had been withheld from them when their father died - until the oldest son was married. It had caused a major decrease in their funds, unable to access the agricultural profits made on their own property. 

“Now that the estate is ours again, the government should grant us a stipend for upkeep of the building and surrounding lands. I will make a second trip to Simoeis to make sure everything goes as planned.” 

“After you’re married, you mean,” Deiphobus waggled his eyebrows. “Good old honeymoon in the countryside.”

“About that -” 

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening!” Deiphobus continued. “Remember, the rest of us can’t marry until you do, Hector. Most importantly, _I_ can’t get married until you do.”

“Oh, so you’ve been planning on marriage, Dei?” Polydorus questioned, throwing a look at Hector. “He has no one in his life,” he whispered, loudly. 

“Shut _up_ , Polydorus,” Deiphobus retorted. 

They all looked at Hector expectantly, who had fallen silent, weighing his words.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. All of you,” he said, eyeing them each in turn. “I ask you to recast your vote.” 

“Hector?” Deiphobus exclaimed, exchanging a look with Polydorus. 

“There is … someone else,” Hector replied.

“Who?!” 

A silence, as he came to terms with what he was about to do. 

“Patroclus.” 

He caught the instant it registered on each of their faces, the situation becoming plain to them. 

“Oh, _Hector_ ,” Polydorus said, somehow looking more amused than scandalized. 

“You chose Sthenelus, even though he is a Danaan. You chose him because you believed he was the right match. For me, and for our family. I’m asking you to change your mind. Deiphobus, you met Patroclus. You can account for him.”

“I …” Deiphobus looked back at Hector in bewilderment. “Hector, I understand what you mean. Patroclus - he’s not a knight or a big shot in the military, but …”

“But we couldn’t have won Lyrnessus without him. You saw how it went. For once, our men were united. Doesn’t it speak for something?”

“Hector, I’m not against you choosing for yourself. But … are you sure? Sthenelus, he’s - you could make an enemy of him, especially if word gets out that you turned him aside for his _brother_.”

“I’ve failed you,” Hector said. At their objections, he shook his head. 

“I delayed this for too long. I was selfish. Look at the damages we’ve taken, while the Regime kept what belongs to us. This house used to be filled with people. When people looked at us, they saw something worthy of respect. I spent so long being angry at what I had to sacrifice, that I didn’t see the bigger picture. I intend to rectify that. But, we will do it on my terms. I choose someone who shares our values, who understands where we come from, who can overlook our differences and stand with us. Think of what we can achieve. That person is Patroclus.” 

There was a silence, as they pondered this. Deiphobus was starting to nod, Polydorus looking at Hector consideringly. Then Helenus scraped his chair back and stood, expression darkened. 

“I didn’t say anything when you were going to bring a Danaan into our family, Hector. But someone who has lain with Achaeans for personal gain?”

“Who told you that?” Hector demanded. 

There was a pause, and then Deiphobus raised his hand, meekly. Hector glared at him. 

“With Achaeans? Huh,” Polydorus observed, looking impressed. “Not an unreasonable fallback if Argos loses the war.” 

“A _prostitute_ ,” Helenus spat. 

“Helenus, don’t call our future brother-in-law a prostitute,” Polydorus countered, grinning. “I look forward to meeting this Patroclus, brother. If he is indeed what you say he is, then he is something our family needs.”

“He might not share his brother’s reputation. But he’s proven to have the mind of a warrior, and Sthenelus’ actions at Lyrnessus have given me pause. I can see why you would choose Patroclus instead. And I think - it is your decision to make, Hector. Polydorus and I can make our votes, but you are the head of this household. I trust your judgment. I’m glad you’ve chosen, Hector. I would never take that away from you.” 

Hector nodded at them both. “Thank you.” 

Helenus got up and left the room without a word. 

“I think you should talk to him,” Deiphobus said, eyeing the doorway with unease.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Helenus!” Hector exclaimed, following his brother through the halls, out the front door, as the young priest made for the street.   
“Can’t you wait, for a minute?” 

“What?” Helenus spun round, looking far angrier than Hector had ever seen him. Helenus wasn’t the most amiable of the brothers in general, being more reserved than either Deiphobus or Polydorus, but this - Hector certainly hadn’t expected this much resistance from him. Of course, he hadn’t anticipated Deiphobus blabbing about Patroclus’ arrangements with the Myrmidons, either. 

“I want to know why you’re so opposed to this.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not the one who gets to vote on this, right?” 

“You weren’t happy about it in the first place. Even when it was Sthenelus.” 

“They’re Danaans, Hector. I have no respect for people who intend to claw their way up to the Regime, taking things they do not have a right to.”

“They are people. They deserve to speak for themselves, to assume leadership positions, to elicit change in our government. I know it goes against your beliefs, Helenus. I know there are certain things a Son of Tros is not allowed to speak on. But I ask that you respect my decision, even if you don’t agree with it.” 

In truth, it was a far deeper argument, one that went into the history of the Argives and Danaans, and what their two peoples believed in. The Argives had won that argument and held their place for centuries. It was what the entire state was founded on, what the Sons of Tros upheld. The Danaans, who came from a separate sect, claimed their heritage from the first followers of the god Danaos, and denied legitimacy of the priest-king Tros. 

Helenus hesitated. “You don’t know what it’s been like, Hector. Things have changed, the priesthood - you think I didn’t warn you out of choice?”

“Then talk to me, Helenus,” Hector sighed. “What are you so afraid of?” 

“The High Priest has started paying more attention to the Regime’s affairs. He never used to meddle with the government, but now… he has the ear of several members in the council. But he isn’t acting alone. I shouldn’t even be telling you this. We have to be careful, Hector. It matters, it matters who we choose to associate ourselves with.”

Hector had suspected this much, but it was interesting that even Helenus had taken note of it. Polydorus hadn’t been overreacting, at least. 

“I hear you, Helenus. These sorts of changes - who’s to say who will benefit? But if we choose sides now, if we let fear rule all of our decisions … that is no life to live.” 

“You think you’re making the right choice. But how is someone who has associated with the enemy supposed to uphold our family name? He does not belong with us!” 

“He will be a part of our family, Helenus. Regardless of your personal beliefs, that is one thing you will have to accept. He will be head of this household beside me, and you _will_ show respect.” 

Helenus fell silent, gaze intent.   
“What if I never accept him? Would you consider changing your mind?”

It made Hector’s heart sink, a heavy weight in his stomach. But he couldn’t show it. 

“I’ve already married him, Helenus.” 

His brother froze, shock taking the anger away for a second. 

“Whatever your grievances are, he will take his place in our household sooner than you know it.” 

“Fine. You do as you please. I will be pleasant. I will be respectful. But don’t think for a second, that I will ever see him as family.” 

They parted ways again, the unresolved tension staining the air long after Helenus had left.


	4. Chapter 4

The day had arrived when Hector was to bring his new husband home. He’d sat on it for weeks, waiting for Patroclus to break the news to his family. Menoetius had sent over a large dowry, more money than Hector had seen in years. He had a feeling Patroclus’ father was intent on proving exactly what Hector had gained from the marriage, especially since the first arrangement with his older son had fallen through. 

It was quiet in the carriage as he mulled over the past few weeks. He sneaked a glance at Patroclus, seated opposite him, gazing out the window at the passing houses. It was a long ride from Menoetius’ vast residence in northern Argos, where the houses resembled palaces, the lands nearly as wide as they were in the countryside. This was wealth, Hector had thought, watching the servants load two additional carriages with Menoetius’ gifts. 

He’d been concerned there would be opposition, that Menoetius would be offended he had rejected the older son in favor of the younger. Patroclus had laughed when Hector voiced these concerns. 

“That is not how my father thinks.” 

Patroclus had looked so different, in his own home, outside the battlefield. He was dressed in the clothing Danaans were known for wearing, all long overshirts and layers, but looking closer, the fabrics were finer than any Argive textile, the rich colors a hint of the expensive dyes his family did not blink at purchasing. If the Danaans had come into their riches at a much earlier time, perhaps they would rule the world by now. Instead, they relied on relationships with the few Argives who would make dealings with them. 

“He’s been angling for a union with one of the ancient families for years. Unfortunately, your people tend to be rather …”

“Prejudiced? Biased? Snooty?” Hector offered. 

Patroclus smiled. “ _Selective_ about who they want their sons and daughters to marry. My father was delighted to hear that Sthenelus’ military duties overlapped with your brother’s. He encouraged a friendship.”

“Ah … so that’s how Deiphobus even learned about Sthenelus. And Polydorus must have gotten the idea in his head.”   
Hector could picture it now, while he had been absent on pilgrimage, Deiphobus struggling to find someone suitable. Enter Sthenelus, a Danaan who had achieved knighthood, son of one of the richest men in Argos. Deiphobus would have mentioned it casually, at the dinner table perhaps, catching Polydorus’ attention. His brothers were well-meaning, but they also weren’t stupid. 

A union with a wealthy Danaan family would be able to bring them more land, generous donations to the army, all features that would be apparent when it came time to choose a new member of the council. In return, they offered one of the most ancient lineages in Argos, and all the prestige that came with it. Menoetius would never be an aristocrat, but he would be as close to one as a Danaan could be. It would not be lost on the Argives he maintained connections with.   
\---

They pulled up into Hector’s street, and Patroclus caught his eye as they went down the road leading up to his house. 

“You know, we used to pass by the Blue Quarters quite often,” Patroclus murmured. 

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Hector replied. “Argos’ oldest families live there, yes. But it’s just a house.” 

“We’ll see,” Patroclus said, and looked out the window again. 

Hector found himself studying the other man. For someone who had made a major decision, one that overturned plans in the making for a long time, Patroclus bore it well. He didn’t seem at all affected by it, always confident, always perceptive. Hector looked down at Patroclus’ hands, which were clasped tightly together, the only thing that betrayed signs of nervousness at what was to come. 

“They can’t wait to see you,” Hector said, smiling slightly when Patroclus turned his head abruptly.   
“I must warn you, though, it can get noisy very quickly. Deiphobus and Polydorus run their mouths a lot. Helenus, well, he’s … away most of the time.”

He kept himself from grimacing. He and Helenus hadn’t really spoken much since their last encounter, and he suspected it would be that way for a while. 

“You must be close with them. At least it seemed that way, with Deiphobus.” 

“Yes. They’re all I have.” 

Patroclus held his gaze, and Hector wondered what it was like, for a brief moment. If it would be any better, or any worse, if his father was still alive. He was lucky, he knew. He had brothers who loved and understood him. Perhaps Patroclus had grown up in a different sort of household.   
\---

Deiphobus, Polydorus, and Helenus were waiting outside the house, to Hector’s surprise. He wondered which one of them had convinced Helenus to be there. 

“It’s good to see you again, Patroclus,” Deiphobus greeted with a winning smile. “Especially under different circumstances than the battlefield.” 

Patroclus chuckled, clasping hands with Deiphobus. “I hardly recognized you without all that armor.” 

“Far less impressive, don’t you think?” Polydorus teased, ignoring Deiphobus’ annoyed look.

“You must be Polydorus,” Patroclus replied. 

“Welcome to the family, Patroclus.” Polydorus offered his hand. He beckoned to Helenus, who was studying Patroclus, expression serious and impenetrable.

“I must admit, this is the first time I’ve met a Son of Tros,” Patroclus offered. Hector stared at Helenus in warning, but his brother collected himself and took Patroclus’ hand. 

“I’m sure.” 

Patroclus raised an eyebrow, but Helenus let his hand go and moved away, and Hector watched as he casually left the room, probably to blow off some steam. 

“I’m sorry, he’s very rude,” Polydorus apologized, and steered Patroclus into the house. 

“I’m going to get the carriages unloaded,” Deiphobus announced. He and Polydorus left together, chattering, leaving Hector and Patroclus alone in the main receiving room. 

They looked at each other for a second, and Hector was unable to keep the smile off his face.  
“See? Not so bad after all.” 

“I didn’t expect them to be so friendly,” Patroclus admitted. “Helenus -”

“Don’t mind him,” Hector cut in. “I had a talk with him before you arrived. If he shows even the slightest disrespect, you only have to come forward.” 

“No, I - I understand, a little. He’s a Son of Tros. It must have taken a great deal of tolerance on his part, not to say anything to me.” 

“He used to be more accepting. But he was selected at a young age. I think the priesthood has taken up much of his life, now.” 

“When was he chosen, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Hector pursed his lips, thinking back. 

“At age fourteen. We all thought it would be Polydorus, but - it was Helenus. They’re only a year apart.” 

Patroclus nodded. “What did your parents think, when they found out?”

“My father was overjoyed. My mother, not so much. They took him away, after that. He was gone for years. We only got letters, and she died before he could come back and see her again.” 

Sons of Tros were inducted into the priesthood following a period of service and study, where they were not allowed contact with their families. Only a full-fledged priest, like Helenus was now, could leave the Temple at will. 

“It must have been hard.”

“I think it was hardest on Polydorus,” Hector replied. “They were close.”

He stood, offering Patroclus his arm. “Do you want to see the rest of the house?”  
\---

It wasn’t what it once had been, without a staff to maintain it over the years. Many of the rooms were closed off, save for the ones they all used. Polydorus hired cleaning girls and a gardener, but they came and went, so the house was more empty than the large space indicated. 

“It will be different, in Simoeis,” Hector explained. “We have a permanent staff there. Now that we have it back, we’ll be able to use its profits to restore this one, too.” 

Patroclus looked around him, stopping every now and then to study the elegant architecture, the bas reliefs over every arched doorway, the blue and white mosaic. 

“It’s a beautiful house,” he said. “You grew up here?” 

“I did, though I was born in Simoeis. We all were. Spent our summers there, too.”

“I’ve never been to southern Argos.”

“We leave in a few days. You’ll get to see it then.” 

He was in fact, eager to get back to the estate. It was away from the city, for one, away from the banners of the knights, people rushing to attend Assembly, gatherings at the Temple of Tros where people yelled and preached about the holy war. It had been nagging at him, ever since his return from Lyrnessus. Perhaps some peace, a few months in the countryside, would grant him rest from the ever-looming threat of war. 

“Fair warning,” he said. “Dinner is either going to be fine or completely disgusting. Polydorus tries his best.” 

He saw Patroclus’ smirk, eyes lighting up in mirth. 

“I think you underestimate my resilience. I did, in fact, live for several years on my own. I had my fair share of inedible meals.”

“Well, Polydorus can get rather creative about them, too.”

Patroclus laughed, and Hector thought he rather liked the sound. It was as if the other man forgot himself for a moment, too caught up to care what anyone else saw. They had a long way to go, but Simoeis would be a start. They were virtually strangers to each other; still, he wanted nothing more than to show Patroclus where it had all begun for his family. Having someone at his side was something different, something he would have to get used to, but it wasn’t a bad change.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night he walked down the hallway to his room, Patroclus having retired earlier. He was tense, his shoulders drawn tight, stomach clenched, and he didn’t remember ever feeling like this at the thought of going to bed with another person. Then again, he’d never slept with someone who wasn’t much more than a stranger, either. 

He saw Patroclus getting ready for bed as soon as he entered the room, and tried to wrap his head around the fact that this was _their_ room. He was a married man, and he would share his bed with Patroclus from now on. Might as well get used to the thought, he mused, as he sat on the bed and smoothed the covers back. 

His gaze wandered over to Patroclus, who caught his eye and went over to him. 

They looked at each other wordlessly, and he could see Patroclus trying to relax, no matter how unbothered he’d initially seemed. He reached out a hand and touched Patroclus’ face, thumb tracing the smooth skin of his cheek, running over his lips. He felt Patroclus lean into the touch, staring straight at him. 

Patroclus wasn’t a typical beauty like others Hector had seen, but he did have a face that made a man look twice. It was the expressiveness of his eyes, every tiny movement that brought his features to life. It was the way he stood and the way he moved. Even now, it was as if he had lived here his whole life. 

He kept stroking the lines of Patroclus’ mouth, not realizing that he had inched closer, until their faces were almost touching. The corners of Patroclus’ lips lifted into a small smile. 

“I want to kiss you,” Hector said, low into Patroclus’ ear. “Can I?”

The smile turned mischievous. “Can you?” 

Hector moved his hands down to Patroclus’ waist, drawing him even closer, until they were pressed up against each other. He leaned forward, watching Patroclus close his eyes in anticipation. Then he moved his head aside, disregarding the other man’s lips, placing a kiss on the side of Patroclus’ neck instead. 

Patroclus’ hum of surprise made him smile. The tension was starting to ebb, he could feel it leaving him, in favor of curiosity, a tinge of excitement at the feel of someone else’s skin on his. He wanted more of it, more of that feeling; wanted to see what was underneath the layers of garments, wanted to see if Patroclus would look at him with any trace of desire.

He stepped back to look at Patroclus again, but the other man caught his hands, bringing them to his body, where his clothes were held together. Slowly, he unfastened them, Patroclus guiding his hands over each button, helping him slide the layers off him one by one, until he was met with naked skin. 

“Your turn,” Patroclus smirked, and made quick work of it, but then, Argive attire was simple and straightforward in comparison. Hector shrugged off his undershirt, feeling Patroclus run his hands over his bare chest. He could already feel the first tinge of arousal at having someone touch him like he wanted him. He slid his hands over Patroclus’ body, abandoning all caution, allowing the touches to become more frantic as they learned each other for the first time. 

He led Patroclus to the bed, settled down on it, eyes roaming shamelessly as Patroclus climbed over him and straddled his lap. He had hardened, almost painfully, and he rocked his hips upwards, wanting Patroclus to feel him. There was a pause as Patroclus gazed down at him, hands cupping his jaw, moving to card his fingers through his hair. 

Then Patroclus let out a gasp as Hector reached between them and grasped his cock, stroking him slowly, grip firm. 

“Gods,” Patroclus moaned, and buried his face in Hector’s shoulder. He started breathing louder as Hector quickened his strokes, then grabbed Hector’s hand and held it still.   
“Not yet,” he said. 

Hector raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Patroclus shook his head, gathering his composure. “Don’t you want to fuck me first?”

Hector removed his hand, reaching round to brush over Patroclus’ back.   
“Is that what you want?” 

“You’re a bit of a tease, aren’t you?” Patroclus asked, amusement coloring his features, and he wound his arms around Hector’s neck, sighing in near-affection. It made Hector feel a warmth in his chest, this closeness, almost hopeful. Well, his marriage bed was not going to be cold and empty, that much he knew, for now. 

He took Patroclus’ face, drew their mouths together, and kissed him, letting himself savor the sensation. Their lips moved together, parting so their tongues could meet, slowly licking into the other’s mouth. Hector reached down to the cleft of Patroclus’ ass, running his fingers over the entrance, feeling Patroclus tense a little and then relax, settling himself more in Hector’s lap. 

“You want me to fuck you?” he asked, and kissed Patroclus again. He could feel Patroclus nodding, hear him grunt an affirmation.   
“Well?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Patroclus confirmed, eyes a little unfocused, and the sight made Hector’s cock throb as he slid it between Patroclus’ thighs.

He stretched his arm, leaning over to the side of the bed for the oil, cursing a little when he couldn’t find it, until his fingers took hold of the small glass bottle. He handed it to Patroclus, leaning back so the other man could slick him up. The feel of Patroclus’ hand stroking him made his breathing quicken, it had been so long since he’d been touched there. Patroclus leaned forwards and caught his mouth in another kiss, heated and anxious. 

He lost himself in it for a moment, then gently pushed Patroclus off him, onto the bed, taking hold of his thighs and parting them wide. He took the bottle of oil and upended it, spreading the liquid all around, then slid a finger into Patroclus, working him open. 

Patroclus sighed and went slack on the bed, so he added another finger, and another, moving them in and out, feeling himself leaking over the bed as Patroclus gripped his wrist, wanting to feel his hand moving. Then Patroclus pushed his hand away, grabbed hold of his hips and pulled him forward, lips meeting again in a messy open-mouthed kiss, as he lined himself up and sank into the other man.

He pressed their foreheads together as he began to thrust, Patroclus’ thighs tightening around his hips, legs moving up to hold him closer. 

“Feels so good,” Patroclus whispered, a sheen of sweat on his skin, and Hector could have come right then. Instead, he rolled them over so Patroclus straddled him again, rolling his hips upwards, their movements in sync as Patroclus started to ride him. The way the other man clenched around his cock was driving him wild, skin against skin, nothing but primal desire between them. 

It was becoming too much, Patroclus moving against him, cock sliding against his stomach, the heat between them and the cool air on his skin. He groaned into Patroclus’ mouth as he met his release, squeezing his eyes shut, letting each wave of pleasure roll over him. 

He gave a hard, shuddering breath, Patroclus slowly inching off him, both of them laughing at the mess. 

“Come here,” he said, collapsing against the bed, completely spent. He laid Patroclus beneath him and took him into his mouth, sucking steadily, enjoying the sounds of Patroclus’ gasps as he continued to pleasure him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted someone to finish in his mouth like this, but the way Patroclus bucked his hips, lost in the sensation, made the anticipation heighten. 

“Going to,” Patroclus breathed, fingers gripping Hector’s hair. He started to moan when he realized Hector was not going to pull away, and then he arched his back, orgasm approaching, panting harder as he rode it out. 

They lay on the bed in a tangle of limbs, Hector already feeling the first haze of drowsiness falling over him. He chanced a look at Patroclus and smiled at his state of utter disarray, far from the collected, coolheaded persona he was used to seeing. 

“We should take a bath,” Patroclus muttered, but the minutes passed and neither moved to leave the bed. It wasn’t long before Hector’s eyelids grew too heavy to keep himself awake any longer, and he could already hear Patroclus’ breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few days passed by uneventfully. Deiphobus and Polydorus got used to having Patroclus around, and even went out of their way to make conversation. Helenus remained quiet and unmoved, but he attended every family dinner and didn’t say anything untoward. It was all Hector could have expected from him. 

On the day they were to leave the city, Deiphobus pulled Hector aside.

“I think you made the right choice, Hector,” he said. “You’re going to need him at the estate. I wish I could go with you, but -” he gave a sheepish smile. “Duty calls.” He gave Hector a long hug. “Take care of each other.”

“We will,” Hector said, and looked over Deiphobus’ shoulder at Patroclus, awaiting him outside the carriage.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a good day’s trip from central Argos to the south, the change in scenery nearly drastic. There was a saying that it was always springtime in Simoeis, and though that wasn’t quite true, Hector could see how it seemed that way. Everything was greener, lusher, the lands stretching out as far as the eye could see. 

It brought back childhood memories, eagerly watching from the window of their carriage as they pulled up in front of the estate, their mother chiding them for not being able to sit still. How different it was now, as the building came into view, the grey stone and plain architecture a stark contrast to the old-world elegance of the Blue Quarters. 

The sky was unending above them, stormclouds gathering, and it was when he felt the first drizzle of raindrops on his skin that he realized how empty the building would be, without his parents or brothers. 

He looked back at Patroclus, who was squinting up at the building, and the unease flowed away, for just a second. This was why he was here. He wouldn’t be alone. This place was just as much Patroclus’ as it was his, now. 

“They held this from you?” Patroclus breathed, looking at Hector in disbelief.   
“The Regime?” 

He could only give a nod of his head, hearing Patroclus’ incredulous scoff. It was hardly a modest piece of land. 

“It is in our hands now,” Hector replied. “Come. Let’s go inside.”


	5. Chapter 5

Their time in Simoeis proved to be the respite Hector had needed, a place the war had not reached, a shelter giving way to simpler times. Still, the work was anything but simple, as he spent his days consulting with the local farmers, trying to restore the contracts they’d had in place years ago. There were a lot of meetings, trying to settle disputes over land, reading over documents that had previously been sent to the government but unheeded. 

He enjoyed walking around the land by himself, visiting with the farmers. He knew he wasn’t exactly welcome - the locals had managed to get by without the aristocracy for years since the time of Hector’s father. But there were certain downsides to reporting directly to the government, as well. The Regime cared little for matters outside the city proper, as long as food supplies were plentiful, and trade continued with the far isles. The lives of peasant farmers were of little consequence to them. 

If he persevered, they would eventually come to an agreement. Oftentimes he brought Patroclus with him, and the presence of a Danaan seemed to soothe the locals more than an Argive aristocrat ever could. These peasants might have been people of Argos, but they had more in common with Danaans than they did with city folk of the upper echelon. This was evidenced by how little the Sons of Tros’ influence had reached the outer bounds of the state. 

Everywhere Hector looked, he saw shrines to lesser-known nature gods, deities the peasants were more inclined to pay tribute to for good weather or a bountiful harvest. They were at the sides of the road, even, little houses with a tiny effigy on the inside, the offerings placed on the outside. Patroclus had stopped to look at them, gazing at the miniature structures in fascination. 

Since his first day at Simoeis, he had started to carry small cakes and cookies with him that he could place as offerings. Hector had shaken his head in wonder, remembering how his father had scoffed at the local beliefs, muttering about blasphemy and ignorant minds. 

“Look at the fields,” Patroclus had gestured around him, at the abundant crops surrounding them, the fruit orchards.  
“Perhaps their gods listen after all. It can’t hurt to show some small acknowledgment.”   
He’d placed three cookies on the shrine, looking immensely pleased with himself. 

The only people in Simoeis who didn’t warm up to Patroclus immediately were the staff in the estate’s household. As soon as they’d settled down in the building, Patroclus had started taking his responsibility as head of the household seriously. Since he couldn’t always accompany Hector on trips to the farmlands, he took to overseeing the restoration of the main house in the estate. 

Some of the servants had been working there for decades, including the housekeeper, Penelope. Hector remembered her as a jovial, pink-cheeked woman from his childhood days. Now, she was older, but still as firm and outspoken as she’d always been. Even his father had kept out of her way, at the time. 

It had only been a few days since their arrival when Hector had gone down for breakfast to find a commotion in the kitchen. 

“What do you mean, you want to see the records of our food supplies?” Penelope had demanded, hands on her hips, an indignant expression on her face. She frowned at Patroclus as though he were a naughty child who needed reprimanding. 

“I would like to see what we’ve been spending our money on for the past few years,” Patroclus replied calmly, apparently unfazed by Penelope’s demeanor. 

“I’ve managed the finances for decades,” Penelope argued. 

Patroclus cocked his head to one side, seeming to consider her words. 

“This is not a slight to you, madam,” he said. “But the estate has only just been returned to us, and it is my responsibility to ensure the funds are being handled accordingly.”

Penelope glared at him, opening her mouth again to speak, but Hector cleared his throat, causing them both to turn and look at him.   
“The records, Penelope,” he said.

“But -” 

He was looking at Patroclus, the latter having met his gaze, a brief moment of consideration followed by understanding. Head of the household was not a position given without a measure of trust. He could see it in Patroclus’ eyes; a test. He would have to extend some level of trust between them, if they could work together to get the estate up and running. 

“My husband is master of this house alongside me. He will need to see the documents, Penelope.” 

And he would have to speak to her later, in private, because he could see she wasn’t happy at all about a stranger taking charge of the household. Patroclus nodded in thanks, and Hector could only hope they didn’t antagonize the servants enough to encounter any real problems. By the end of the week, Patroclus had organized their funds, leaving aside all the money that could be used to restore the building. He had taken supervision of the staff, and slowly, the house was being repaired and restored to its former glory.

There was always something being fixed or cleaned when Hector walked down the halls, the carpets being aired out, rooms reopened and cleared out so that it would be suitable to house more than a few people at a time. The house hadn’t looked this open and inviting even when he’d been a child. 

At night, they sat together in his study and pored over the accounts, trying to decide what to spend money on and what to hold off on. 

“You enjoy doing this, don’t you,” Hector remarked.

“Danaans are good with money,” Patroclus replied, sounding pleased. 

“So I’ve heard.” Hector studied Patroclus, thinking the busy work was good for them both. It was hard work, yes, often requiring more problem-solving than he’d ever done, and sometimes it could be monotonous. But Patroclus made it look easy, leafing through each document as if he’d spent his entire life reading them. 

“Tell me about Simoeis,” Patroclus said, looking up from his papers, the lamplight illuminating his features. 

“You mean the things you haven’t seen?” 

“I mean the parts we did see, that people don’t seem to talk about that much.”

Hector waited for Patroclus to continue. 

“That old building we passed by, on our way here. Did it used to be a fortress?”

Hector frowned. “Once, perhaps. Why do you ask?” 

“Is the land ours?” 

“If it is what I think you’re getting at, then yes. It isn’t worth much. There’s no farmland in that area.” 

“I would disagree on its worth. The Regime would be clamoring for that piece of land, if they ever bothered to come out here.” 

Hector stared back at Patroclus, trying to see what it was the other man was trying to tell him. The thought came. 

“No.”

“You spoke of building a legacy.”

“We are not there yet, Patroclus. Right now we’re barely scraping by.” 

“It will pass.” Patroclus waved a hand, as though their current issues were a matter of inconsequence.   
“Building trust with the locals takes time. And you’re on your way to doing it. I am speaking of something that will not wait for you to realize its significance.” 

“And where are we going to get the money? Hmm? Rebuilding a fortress is going to deplete our resources faster than we can blink.” 

Patroclus smiled and got up from his chair, slowly sliding into Hector’s lap. 

“You’re forgetting that you’re no longer alone, husband. We have alliances. Connections. It would be a shame not to use them.” 

Hector pursed his lips, weighing the thoughts in his head. “You really think Simoeis could be used as a defensive position one day?”

“The council makes its decisions as we speak. We will be giving High Lord Agamemnon an opportunity to choose an advantageous location, one that is not on Achaean soil. We have brought the battle to the Achaeans so far, but what if they choose to retaliate? No one becomes High Lord by being unprepared.” 

He wasn’t wrong. But this place, its fields and its people; they would be inviting bloodshed and destruction into this serene landscape. He thought of the farmers he had spent weeks making dealings with, the people who served his very household. They were far from Achaean reach now, but they wouldn’t be, forever. Patroclus seemed to sense what he was thinking. 

“We cannot foresee where the Achaeans will choose to attack. But anticipating it and making the appropriate arrangements is a far better decision than hoping they will overlook the south. Thinking ahead does not mean you invite war, Hector.” 

Hector nodded. “I’ll consider it.”   
\---------------------------------------

“I think we should do it,” Deiphobus said, when they proposed the idea to him. He had come to visit, a stop from his patrols on the borders.   
“Think about it. A stronghold, on our land? Not many others have that much to boast of.”

“And what use will it be, if the Regime can’t get its hands on it?” 

“You don’t know how much success Agamemnon has enjoyed since Lyrnessus, Hector,” Deiphobus replied.   
“The council looks to him to make the majority of their military decisions. The other members have their own armies, but they’ve had to defer to him. He is the one whose name is celebrated among the people, after all.” 

“It can cause an imbalance in power,” Patroclus acknowledged. 

Deiphobus nodded. “These days, you can go very far based on how useful you are to Agamemnon. One doesn’t become High Lord by being blind to opportunities. Just because he doesn’t come out here that often doesn’t mean he doesn’t know Argos like the back of his hand.” 

“And the other lords of the council? How are they taking Agamemnon’s leadership?” Hector questioned. 

Deiphobus hesitated. “I’ve been talking to Polydorus about this, and … I can’t confirm anything, but it seems High Lord Menelaus has been doing the same thing, through different means.” 

Hector frowned, trying to figure out who it was Deiphobus was talking about. The members of the council changed so frequently; lately, it had only been Agamemnon who had managed to hold onto his seat this long. As far as many people were concerned, he was the only one who truly deserved the title “High Lord.” 

“This is the one who has shown support for Danaans in the past?” he asked. 

“Nearly lost him his seat on the council,” Deiphobus confirmed. “But he has more rapport with the Sons of Tros than Agamemnon ever had. They’ve been channeling money into his own army, and there is talk that he plans a siege on Dardanus.” 

“By himself? Without Agamemnon’s troops?” 

“It will sway the council in his favor,” Deiphobus replied. 

Hector ran his fingers through his hair, thinking back to Helenus’ words the day they had argued about his marriage. The High Priest, not acting alone. Was it possible that this Menelaus was the one who had cajoled him into inserting the priesthood’s influence over this war? Agamemnon was notoriously secular. But someone who could dig deep enough, who could influence the people with a divine purpose … that could result in a major threat to Agamemnon’s authority. 

So why hadn’t anyone heard anything about it until now? 

“We will need to speak to Menoetius about the stronghold,” Hector decided.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke up to an empty bed, and slowly got up, wondering where Patroclus had gone. Another argument with Penelope? The housekeeper still wasn’t keen on the new arrangements, especially since Patroclus had taken to supervising her staff, too, roaming the household morning and night and overseeing the work. 

Hector groaned and rolled over, he was really not in the mood to explain to Penelope that no, she had not been demoted, and yes, he would speak to Patroclus about letting her regain some authority. The two clearly didn’t trust one another - for some reason Patroclus thought the older woman was incompetent, and she clearly felt the same about him. 

He decided to get up and see what was going on, but spotted Patroclus at the window, looking outside sullenly. 

“It’s too early,” he grumbled. 

Patroclus said nothing, so he got up and joined him at the window. 

There was a carriage outside, the horses being led away by the stablehand. Hector recognized the ornate design, and cursed. Menoetius had arrived earlier than expected. He placed a hand on either side of Patroclus. “We should get ready and meet him.” 

Patroclus’ continued silence alarmed him, he craned his neck to see the other man’s expression, but was met only with that same surly demeanor.   
“Patroclus?” 

“I’ll be right down.” 

“...Alright.” 

He went and got ready, feeling more concerned when Patroclus didn’t move from the window, even when he was fully dressed and ready to receive his father-in-law.   
\-----------------

Menoetius was a man who meant business, which one could tell by the way he strode into the main hall, declining a proper welcome, brushing past the servants as though they didn’t exist. 

“It’s good of you to come on such short notice,” Hector greeted, inclining his head respectfully. 

The two of them sat in the receiving room, facing each other. 

“Tell me more about this investment my son speaks of,” Menoetius replied, voice deep and cordial, even though he couldn’t have been more brusque. 

If that was how they were going to play it. 

“Simoeis is home to a piece of land that is a relic of days past. Since then, the fortress that once stood there has been laid to ruin. You might have passed it on your way here.” 

Menoetius nodded, motioning for Hector to continue. 

“It is our intention to rebuild this fortress, a stronghold for southern Argos, where Agamemnon might bring his army if we are ever in need of a strong defensive position.”

“A strategic location,” Menoetius observed. Hector could see the gleam in the older man’s eye, his attention having been captured by talk of the Regime. 

It was then that the doors opened, and they lifted their heads to see Patroclus entering the room. 

“Father,” Patroclus greeted, looking far better than he had earlier. 

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up,” Menoetius replied, not quite a snap, but his tone was reproving all the same. The older man beckoned at Hector. “Leaving your husband to do all the negotiating?” 

Hector turned to Patroclus, who only gazed back at his father evenly. “Hector and I have discussed the plan together. I’m sure I didn’t miss much.” 

Menoetius was silent for a while, and father and son seemed engaged in some sort of staring match. Hector looked back and forth between them. Gods. Was this how it had been with his own father? 

“Well?” Patroclus continued. He smiled coolly, relaxing into his chair even though his hands clenched the edges of his armrests. 

Menoetius ignored him and directed his attention to Hector.   
“I must admit I have never been able to gain Agamemnon’s support. The man has never wanted for sponsorship of his various campaigns.”

“The building of a fortress would gain his attention. Still, word has reached us that the council might experience a period of instability.” 

“This is new information,” Menoetius remarked.

“It might be a good idea to hold off on any offers, until we are sure where the council’s support lies. That is, if we are successful in rebuilding the fortress.” 

Menoetius’ lips twitched, and he cast his gaze to Patroclus for a second.   
“Oh, we will be successful.” He got up, motioning for Hector to walk him out. “My son is rarely wrong about these things,” he said, when they were out of earshot. 

Hector hesitated, still wary of the relationship between father and son. If Menoetius could acknowledge Patroclus had done something right, why couldn’t he do it to his son’s face? 

“I expect to hear word of when the construction begins.” 

Gods, it was going to be a nightmare. Hector walked back into the receiving room, surprised to find Patroclus still there. 

“Singing my praises, was he?” Patroclus mumbled, though the tone of his voice suggested he believed otherwise.

“He said you’re rarely wrong about these things.” 

Patroclus crossed his arms and stared at the floor.

“Fathers,” Hector said. “If they’re not driving you up the wall, well - they’re admitting you aren’t wrong, but only when you can’t hear them.” 

It made Patroclus look up at him, expression lightening for a moment. 

“I don’t hate him,” he said.   
“I just - it was hard growing up, with him as a father. Everything I’ve done has been for his benefit. The Achaeans … marrying you …”

“I know,” Hector said. “My father is dead and I’m _still_ making decisions based on his vision for our family. You’re not alone in that.” 

“The thing is,” Patroclus continued, and swallowed. “I don’t know what I would even want, if it wasn’t all about him. I don’t even know myself, sometimes.”

Hector fell silent, the words resonating with him more than he’d thought possible. Who _was_ he, really? Without Deiphobus? Polydorus? Helenus? Without generations of an ancient family name behind him, dictating his every move for the future? Perhaps he’d known, once. As a boy, dreaming of getting away, far from Argos. Those windy days on the roof with Deiphobus, counting ships, imagining he’d hop on one when he was old enough, and sail far away. 

That boy was gone, and his dreams with it. Now he had a duty to the people he loved, a home to protect. He cared _nothing_ for war, for glory, for power. But those were the things he was heading towards. He would spend his life carrying the dreams of other men. 

He looked at Patroclus, then, the words they’d shared the night they met always lingering in the back of his mind. Perhaps duty always came first, but he would do it on his own terms. He had made this promise to himself, and seen it through when he had chosen the one he would marry. He was not alone.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been a few weeks since their time in Simoeis had come to an end, though they would have to visit frequently to observe progress on the construction of the fortress. Hector felt the change in scenery more severely than he would have years ago. The busy streets of Argos did nothing to quiet his restless mind, no fields to walk, nowhere to escape. But it was good to be home. He had gotten used to the sounds of people bustling through the corridors in Simoeis, but it still wasn’t quite the same as having his family around him. 

He passed by the Temple of Tros, shaking his head at the long lines crowding the temple complex. The Festival of Tros was approaching, and people would be waiting their turn to show penitence for their wrongdoings. It was a week-long event, symbolizing the trials and tribulations of the priest-king when he was wandering the earth, spreading the word of the god and goddess. The aristocracy tended to celebrate Tros’ suffering by holding ostentatious parties that went well into the night.  
\---

The smell of burning leaves and incense was strong in the air when he returned to the Blue Quarters, each house decorated with wreaths and candles. Their own house was adorned as such, a few of the servants Polydorus had hired climbing the trees to hang ribbons. Patroclus was watching them, looking both interested and uncertain. It must have been strange for him, in an Argive household, celebrating a religious figure the Danaans did not believe in. 

“A bit extreme, don’t you think?” Hector asked, placing a hand on the small of Patroclus’ back in greeting. 

Patroclus glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “You should see my father’s house at the Festival of Io.” 

Just then, Polydorus came in, waving a piece of parchment in his hand.  
“You might be wondering what it is I have here,” he said, grinning. 

“Do tell,” Hector replied.

“The council members have been discussing the next step after Lyrnessus. I have managed to get a list of possible locations for the next battleground.” 

“I thought the general idea was to take Dardanus next?” 

“Yes …” Polydorus’ grin faltered. “After Sthenelus’ attack on Dardanus during Lyrnessus, the council has shied away from launching a direct attack on the cities. They’re focusing on the towns and villages around the area. Trying to resume control of the roads, you know.” 

Patroclus had started to shake his head at the mention of Sthenelus. “My poor brother,” he muttered, even though he looked far from upset. “A real hit to the reputation he’s been building all these years.” 

He glanced at Hector. “Towers tend to crumble without a proper foundation, don’t they?” 

“One can hardly say your brother had no foundation in the army.”

Patroclus merely smiled and went to peer over Polydorus’ shoulder at the list.  
“What do you intend to do with this information, Polydorus?” he asked. 

At this, Polydorus sighed. “Well first, I need to find out what each council member is leaning towards. They will vote on the location and send a messenger to the Achaeans to agree on the place of battle. It’s how it usually goes. If I were Head Secretary, I would know who’s siding with who.”

Polydorus huffed. “Gods, who do I have to sleep with?” 

Patroclus raised his eyebrows. 

“He’s been trying to get that position for years,” Hector explained.  
The Head Secretary was entrusted with information that only members of the council usually had access to. He could advise members on matters of foreign diplomacy and act as a messenger between each member. It was a unique position, an entirely neutral party who also had the ability to sway minds, whisper in the right ears, and possibly change the rules of the game. It was exactly what Polydorus was cut out for. 

“Speaking of the council, we are going to Agamemnon’s fete tomorrow night. I managed to get us an invitation,” Polydorus announced. 

“No,” Hector started to say, but Patroclus shot him a look. 

“That’s a good idea, Polydorus. Will all of the council members be there?”

“Supposedly,” Polydorus replied. “The High Lord tends to keep his rivals close.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Hector had to admit the house was beautiful at night, hundreds of candles lit so that the orange light reflected off the blue and white, alongside the other houses on their street. He could hear the hymns being sung all the way from the temple complex, their famous choir making its voice heard every evening. 

It was a special time in Argos, if one could hold still for a moment and enjoy the moments of silence within the raucous activity of the festival. He stood out in the courtyard, taking it all in, when he heard soft footsteps behind him. 

Just a second later, Helenus was standing beside him, eyes on the lights of the candles as well, his hands behind his back. They stood in silence for a minute, then Hector caught his brother’s gaze. 

“Simoeis was just as beautiful as I remembered, you know.” 

Helenus bowed his head, and Hector could see the edges of his expression give way to sadness. 

“You haven’t been there for years, Helenus.” 

“I don’t think anything could make me go back there,” his brother whispered.

“Just because she’s gone doesn’t mean the memories don’t mean anything anymore.” 

Helenus let out a breath, that old guilt returning again. Hector had seen it when his brother had returned not too long ago, after years of isolation from his own family. Meanwhile, their mother had died in Simoeis, waiting for the son she had given away to the priesthood. 

“You should see how it’s changed. The old building. I plan to take Polydorus there sometime. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

A small smile flitted at the corners of Helenus’ lips, and he looked Hector in the eye, expression softening. 

“The Festival of Tros is a time for forgiveness, you know.” 

A comfortable silence seemed to settle between them. 

“You’re the priest. You know more about it than I do.”

Helenus chuckled. “Tros wandered the earth spreading the word of the god and goddess, and was met with nothing but revulsion. They beat him, spat on him, until he was nothing but a broken man. But when the time came for his return to Argos, even in all his splendor, he recognized the faces of his tormentors, and forgave them.”

“You’re not angry with me anymore?”

Helenus shook his head. “I wish you had chosen differently, Hector. I wish you had chosen for -” Helenus stopped himself, a flurry of emotions entering his face again. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Now is not the time, and family is all we have.” Helenus resumed his gaze over the lights, but Hector thought he was looking at something far away, something unreachable. It made a heavy weight settle in the pit of his stomach, because he knew what Helenus had been about to say.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Agamemnon’s fete was the most anticipated event of the season, the most prominent members of Argive society attending from all across the city. The High Lord’s house stood in the Red Quarters, on the other side of the citadel, where the buildings were built with red brick and boasted impressive sculptures. 

“Look at that one,” Polydorus said, pointing at a massive lion with the head of a gazelle in its mouth. 

The music blared into Hector’s ears, the sounds of chattering, Argos’ aristocracy gathering together in a swirl of brightly colored costumes. This was another Night Assembly, except with the facade of merriment. He had to fight the grimace on his face at every turn. Patroclus stood at his side, looking completely at ease, ignoring the few stares thrown his way at his Danaan formal attire. 

“It’s High Lord Dolon! Excuse me for a moment,” Polydorus exclaimed, and disappeared into the crowd. 

“You hate these things, don’t you,” Patroclus remarked, a playful grin on his face as he studied Hector. 

“Hate is the wrong word. I prefer ill. It makes me ill.” 

Patroclus laughed, the sound making Hector smile.  
“You did say you wanted music.”

“Hmm?”

“At the Night Assembly. Well, here you are.” 

Patroclus stared back at him thoughtfully. “It is an impressive party,” he remarked. They stood facing each other for a moment, the sounds around them becoming more distant. 

“Hector!” An older man and woman strode up to them, looking expectant. 

Gods.

“Uncle Xanthus,” he managed a smile. “Aunt Laodamia.” 

He turned to beckon at Patroclus. “You haven’t met my uncle and aunt, have you?”

“I have not. Do introduce us, Hector,” Patroclus replied pleasantly, though he stared at Xanthus and Laodamia with a certain sharpness in his gaze. 

“Of course. We received word of your um, marriage.” Xanthus sniffed as he looked Patroclus up and down. “We were acquainted with your father at one point.”

“How delightful,” Patroclus replied, still smiling amiably. 

“I hardly think your kind of attire is appropriate for an event like this,” Laodamia commented, throwing a sideways glance at Patroclus’ clothing. 

Patroclus turned to her. “Is it not? Why, I must have been mistaken. Perhaps Danaan silk is a little excessive for the High Lord’s fete.”  
Laodamia glared at him. Danaan silk was the most highly prized fabric in Argos. 

Hector could have started laughing, but kept control of himself. There was a reason he didn’t keep in contact with relatives. Even though Sarpedon _was_ far more tolerable than his parents. He could tell Xanthus was itching to pull him aside, but he was not about to have that conversation. 

“We should go,” he said. “Patroclus has never been to Agamemnon’s fete before. It would be a shame to miss the festivities.”

They left the older couple, walking further into the hall where all the dancing was. 

“I didn’t know they were your relatives,” Patroclus said, looking like he was trying to mask his irritation. 

“You know them?” 

“Several years ago they borrowed a sum of money from my father. To fund their new holiday villa, it seemed. When they couldn’t pay the money back, well, my father refused to do business with them again, or any of their friends. They badmouthed him to other members of the aristocracy and nearly ruined his reputation. We weren’t allowed in the Argive business district for years.” 

“That … does not surprise me.” 

“Anyway,” Patroclus continued. “They must be furious that you married me.” His expression suddenly brightened. 

“I’m sure,” Hector replied. “That’s the only reason I picked you, you know.”

“Oh?”

“To piss off my annoying relatives.” 

There was a pause, as they shared a smile, and Hector thought that perhaps this was the first time he’d seen Patroclus like this. That look on his face, open and bright, like he was, in a way, happy. 

“Come dance with me,” Patroclus said, pulling Hector into the circle of dancers.  
“I know you hate it,” he added. “Just one, come on.” 

What could Hector do but oblige? He wanted to keep seeing it, the first genuine smile on Patroclus’ face, none of that aloof, calculating demeanor he was so used to. He took Patroclus in his arms and held him close, trying to clear his mind so his feet could move in time to the music. 

“You’re rather good at this,” Patroclus observed, sounding remotely impressed. 

“You have my mother to thank for that.” 

They didn’t speak further, swaying and crossing the dance floor with ease instead. Hector was beginning to think that he liked having Patroclus so close, the feel of him. He was elegant in his Danaan garments and held onto Hector with a firm, yet gentle grip. 

“You can hold me tighter, you know,” Hector said, without thinking. 

At Patroclus’ puzzled look, he continued. “Just so I won’t slip away and fall over.” 

A soft, amused expression went over Patroclus’ face then. “You’re not going to.” He tightened his grip on Hector to make his point. “I won’t let that happen.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crowds had begun to disperse, and they found themselves mingling, catching bits and pieces of others’ conversations. Hector caught sight of Deiphobus and Sarpedon walking together in the gardens outside, deep in conversation. It gave him a warm feeling, seeing Deiphobus enjoying himself after the time he’d spent away from home. 

“Do you notice how members of the council have been avoiding conversation about the army?” Patroclus murmured, as they passed several groups of people who were talking together. 

“How so?”

“You see over there?” Patroclus beckoned his head at one of the High Lords, one of the more recent appointees of the council.  
“They have spoken of nothing but the holy war for the past hour, but every time someone mentions Agamemnon’s army, he changes the subject.” 

Patroclus led Hector over to another part of the room. “And him.” 

Hector was careful not to stare. 

“He keeps bringing up the priesthood and how much they’ve spent on outfitting the army. Agamemnon is wealthy enough to fund his own troops.” 

“Menelaus,” Hector whispered. “Just like Deiphobus said.” 

“But to bring it up here, in Agamemnon’s own house? Bold.” 

“More than half of the Argive aristocracy is here,” Hector pointed out.  
“If they need support from outside the council, this is where they’ll find it.”

Patroclus pursed his lips, a pensive look crossing his face. “There is another problem.”  
He looked around them, making sure they were out of earshot from anyone who might pass by.  
“Polydorus mentioned how the plan is to reach Dardanus next.” 

Hector nodded, waiting for him to continue. 

“Choosing a battlefield takes negotiation with the Achaeans. But it seems Agamemnon has earned some bad blood. He had the prisoners of war from Lyrnessus executed.” 

“The Achaeans are going to cease communication with him,” Hector guessed. 

“But not with Menelaus. Is it possible that most of the council will pledge their support to him instead?” 

“It’s hard to believe, especially now. Agamemnon is still enjoying our victory in Lyrnessus. He has the people’s favor.”

“Yes, but when the time comes … and Menelaus is close with the Sons of Tros. We could be looking at a plan to overthrow Agamemnon.”

“The question is,” Hector started. “What could that mean for Argos?” 

There was a lot to think about.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had barely risen when he woke up, the sky still a deep blue outside. He could hear Patroclus’ steady breathing next to him. Why couldn’t he go back to sleep? He sat up, drawing the covers closer to keep out the chill morning air. Even the birds weren’t awake. He looked down at Patroclus, the shadows over his bare skin, face young and soft. 

The memory of the night before surfaced in his mind, and he couldn’t suppress a shiver. He would be thinking of it for days to come. 

“You seem troubled,” Patroclus had said, when they got home, alone in their room together. Hector had grunted and shrugged off his formal clothes, wanting to breathe again. 

“Tell me,” Patroclus insisted. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Just a lot to think about.” Hector looked up at Patroclus. “It doesn’t worry you at all?” 

“What? Agamemnon losing the upper hand? This Menelaus having control of the priesthood?” Patroclus chuckled. “Politics, my dear. It’s the game we play.”  
He stopped laughing when Hector didn’t reply. “Don’t forget what we do this for.” 

Anger flared inside Hector, then, anger that had long been suppressed. He stood and faced Patroclus, confused and disheartened at the words. “You think I don’t think about it every single day? This … war. This bloody war!” He wanted to grab something, throw it, but his hands were empty, and Patroclus’ gaze made him feel the severity of it all. 

“We’ve had a lovely evening,” Patroclus said. “Don’t ruin it.” 

“How are we supposed to defeat the Achaeans?” Hector asked. “Argos is at war with itself.” 

“So you want to walk away, is that it? This was a fight you never wanted. You never cared about the holy war.”

“Neither do you!” Hector cried. 

Patroclus took Hector’s hands and looked him square in the eye.  
“You think I don’t know how you feel?” he hissed. “I know that look. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

He squeezed Hector’s hands tight. “But we can’t afford anything else. We can’t afford to falter. This is our life, Hector.” 

He leaned his forehead against Patroclus. It _was_ exhausting. And they had only just begun. His father had actually wanted this. Perhaps Deiphobus and Polydorus enjoyed it too. Climbing up the ranks, using their rapport with other aristocrats to further their influence on the Regime. All for a name. Men could endure disease, poverty, and destruction. But the thought of their names being forgotten in the pages of history? Forgotten by the gods? It was unspeakable. 

“One day when the war is over, perhaps,” Patroclus whispered.

“And if it is never over?” 

“Then we never stop fighting.” How could he turn away that look? So much determination, out of one person who had never been allowed to play the game until now. 

He took Patroclus’ face in his hands and kissed him, because it gave him strength, because he thought it was the only way he could quell the frustration that had been brewing inside him since the holy war began.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He went down into the courtyard, thinking to get a few moments alone, a few moments of fresh air before the sun rose and the day began. It wasn’t long before he could tell he wasn’t alone. Polydorus and Helenus sat together on a bench, talking quietly. He debated leaving them by themselves, but the rapid rising of their voices gave him pause. 

“Don’t, Helenus. Please. I know things haven’t exactly been good between us, but … this is your home.” 

“Polydorus.” Helenus sighed. “I’m not coming back.” 

“Why?” Polydorus’ teeth were gritted. “Just because I went to the fete? It happens to be my job, you know.” 

“I told you to stop drawing attention to us. What does it matter? You think we’ll have a hand in winning this war, and the council will finally recognize us?”

There was a silence as Polydorus stared at Helenus. “Don’t you care about any of this at all?” 

“Maybe I care about our family,” Helenus replied, growing heated. “Maybe I don’t want to see us torn apart!”

“How? How are we torn apart?” 

“They can use me against you,” Helenus seethed. “If they know what you’re doing, and now the priesthood isn’t safe either.” 

“So you’re just going to stay away? That’s insane, Helenus.” 

“You’ve never understood me, Polydorus.” 

“I would! I would if you just talked to me! But you never do! Ever since you came back it’s like you have this cloud over you, and I’m always walking on eggshells. I’m sick of it!” 

“Good. I’ll be gone, and out of your hair.” 

“No, Helenus, that’s not what I meant -” 

But Helenus had started to leave, ignoring Polydorus’ urgent calls, pushing his brother away even when he tried to stop him. 

Hector was left looking at the scene, feeling a growing perturbation inside him. Helenus, wanting to distance himself from the family? He couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it was, what was going on that he just couldn’t see.


	7. Chapter 7

It was uncharacteristically quiet in the house on the last few days of the festival. Hector could have counted the number of times he thought of approaching Polydorus, only to be silenced by the sight of his brother’s brooding figure. It was not at all like Polydorus to be so downcast. Out of all his brothers, Polydorus was the least likely to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

They had all found out about Helenus’ departure by now, and although Deiphobus was sympathetic, Hector could tell he simply didn’t understand what it meant to have their youngest brother gone for good. 

“We can still see him at Temple,” he’d said, completely oblivious to Polydorus’ cynical look at the statement. 

In truth, Deiphobus was too distracted to be concerned about such matters. Sarpedon had come to visit for the first time in a few years, and the two hadn’t been in the house together since boyhood. Hector had at first been worried that Sarpedon was here to extend an invitation from his parents. He had no intention of visiting with Xanthus and Laodamia, having seen enough of them at Agamemnon’s fete for years to come. After a few hours, though, it was clear that Sarpedon was only here to spend time with Deiphobus, and he needn’t have worried at all.  
\---

The family sanctuary had been in disuse for several years, covered in dust the last time Hector had seen it. It was a small room, lined with stained glass windows that had lasted for generations. His mother had spent a great deal of time in the room, using the quiet space for solitude and prayer. He certainly hadn’t expected to see Patroclus in here, staring at the twin statues of Danaos and Io, the light from the windows falling over him in a myriad of colors. 

“I leave for Simoeis tomorrow,” Hector stated. He saw Patroclus start, as though he’d been lost in thought and hadn’t realized someone else was in the room. 

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” 

“It will be a short trip. Your father - he will be in to see us when I return?” 

Patroclus nodded, and turned back to the statues. It was hard to gauge the expression on his face.  
“There was a room just like this, in Simoeis,” he mentioned, voice soft as though it came from far away. 

“It’s a prayer room,” Hector pointed out. “In times past, it could be used as a place to hide if there were intruders. It is punishable by death to harm the inhabitants in their place of faith. At least … that was how it used to be.” 

Patroclus was silent, eyes roving over the sanctuary’s altar. “Do you think they listen?” he beckoned at the statues, Danaos’ and Io’s roughly humanoid faces blank and staring. Hector bit his lip, unsure how to respond. Any good Argive would be outraged at such a question, but there was a reason he himself had not set foot in the sanctuary for years. 

“I haven’t expected them to in a long time,” he replied, because it was the only answer he had. He saw Patroclus’ lips quirk up at the statement, and couldn’t tell if it was what he had wanted to hear.  
“And you? What prayers do you hope will not fall on deaf ears?” 

“Sometimes there are things that can’t be left unsaid for too long. That’s how I think of it. Whether or not we are heard … who’s to say?” 

“Well, this is a suitable place to air out your grievances. I’m sure Helenus has used it as his screaming chamber for years.” 

Silence fell between them as they thought of the youngest brother, in this room, with their silent gods.  
“He’ll come back,” Patroclus said, even though Hector had no idea how he could sound so reassuring. “He won’t leave Polydorus behind for good.” 

He would never know how Patroclus was so attuned to these matters, especially when Helenus avoided him like the plague. But he had spent enough time with the other man to know that those eyes missed nothing.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was refreshing not to be cooped up in a carriage for once. The ride back from Simoeis had been an unexpected thrill, feeling the wind in his hair, able to keep his thoughts on nothing else but staying astride his horse, the plans for the fortress securely fastened beside him. He was sure the news would be well-received, seeing as they had placed so much hope on the idea of a stronghold, a landmark of significance that would put them on the map. 

Menoetius was already at the house when he returned, and it was almost strange to see two Danaans lounging casually in the courtyard. He could imagine the look on his father’s face if he had been alive, and could not suppress a surge of amusement at the thought. 

Whatever differences Patroclus had with his father were put aside for the time being. Hector recognized it so well from conversations with his own father - managing to remain civil, even when there was so much underneath the surface. Years of resentment, perhaps. He could tell that Menoetius respected Patroclus, at least, even if it would never become apparent.  
\---

It was after Menoetius had left that a loud banging on the door interrupted the stillness, and he could hear Polydorus’ voice intercepting the visitors. Seconds later, two guards from the citadel made their appearance, scrolls in hand, their expressions intent as they scanned the room.

Hector could feel a knot forming in his stomach at the anticipation. Even after all these years, the feeling remained the same. 

“Hector son of Priam?” the first guard looked around the room, until his gaze landed on Hector.  
“By order of the council, you are summoned to serve in the army.”

Hector walked up to the guard and retrieved his scroll, his name, unit and station clearly printed on the inside. 

“We march for Dardanus so soon?” he questioned. “What about the battlefield negotiations?” 

“The council has made its decision,” the guard replied tersely, and turned to go before he could be questioned any further. 

Hector stared at the scroll, oblivious to the guards leaving. He had known this would happen, but it had stayed at the back of his mind since Lyrnessus, and now it all came rushing forward. He felt a hand on his arm, and looked up, if only for the silence to be broken. 

“Why have you been summoned? You already served in Lyrnessus,” Patroclus objected, looking concerned and upset. 

“I don’t have a choice.” 

Patroclus’ trepidation only seemed to deepen at the words. “But …”  
He stared up at Hector. “We’ve only just come back. What about Simoeis?”

It was a fair question. They had only just started their lives together, but war waited for no man. 

“You’ll be here,” Hector reminded him. “You can keep an eye on things, hmm? At least while I’m gone.”  
\---

He reminded himself of this as he went about unpacking his armor, for the second time. They would have to be polished, he thought, but it would do. He held the helmet in his hand, gleaming and golden, a rich horsehair plume of red atop the crest. It had been passed down from father to son for generations, and he had no idea who had made it or how old it was. There was something about wearing it that made him feel so unlike himself. Like he was stepping out of his body, a specter in bronze, the images of his enemies reflected on the metal. All at once he was Danaos the Hero, a man so great he was deified by the gods. What Argive did not grow up idolizing the Hero? A dream to escape mortality. He shook his head, scrubbing the helm with his sleeve, scrubbing away those foolish illusions. He knew better. 

The door behind him opened and closed, he could hear Patroclus’ soft footsteps approaching him.  
“Ever wonder what those bedtime stories were for?” he muttered, arranging his armor on the wooden post so he could figure out what adjustments needed to be made. 

There was a moment of silence as Patroclus processed his words.  
“What?” 

“The ones our mothers told us when we were children. Cautionary tales, right? Meant to scare us away from doing silly things? Don’t walk alone at night, don’t talk to strangers, and never, for the love of Io, steal your friend’s armor and fight in his place, it’ll only get you killed.”

Patroclus stared at him. “Hector … what on earth are you talking about?” 

“They told us lies to scare us away. What if those tales of Danaos were just the same? To feed into our fears, that heroes can’t be made without partaking in bloodshed.” 

Patroclus said nothing for a long time. He simply looked at Hector in a way he hadn’t ever before.  
“There are no such things as heroes, love. There are only people.” He took the helm from Hector, gently, not even sparing it a glance.  
“And decisions. So many decisions.” 

It made Hector’s chest tighten. Here was something he had been looking for, something he had wanted to hear for a long time. Patroclus gave him a small smile, a tired, sad smile. 

“I’m going with you.” 

Hector could not mask his alarm. “I -” he began to shake his head. “You’re not, Patroclus.” 

“We fought together in Lyrnessus.”

“That was different. We’re talking about the Achaean army at Dardanus. The death toll will be rising by the day. Why would you go to war if you weren’t summoned, Patroclus?” 

“Because everything we have done so far, we’ve done together. I belong at your side, Hector. If something happens to you, I will carry your sword home to your brothers. You will do the same for me.” 

He couldn’t look away, Patroclus’ gaze so intent, words that were meant to get through to him. 

“It was what you promised me,” Patroclus insisted, and he knew it was true. A laugh was threatening to give way, tickling at his throat, at the irony. The vows they had made at the marriage altar, in secret, months ago, now. Vows meant for love, not an agreement like theirs. Yet in that instant, no words could have rung truer.

Hector closed his eyes and sighed. “You’re coming with me.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the hours before dawn when the troops left, their numbers greater than any Hector had ever seen. Every army, from Agamemnon’s, to Menelaus’, and the other high lords in between. It was how the council had reached a vote. They had banded together, sending every man they could spare, in the hopes that sheer ambition would drive the reins. For once, it was not Agamemnon who led the fight. This change clouded the air, the sea of faces around them blurring together even as the day darkened. Up ahead, heavy clouds loomed over them, their army standards seeming to pierce the sky. 

To the far right, Agamemnon’s Knights held their emblem proudly, and it made Hector feel a growing relief, knowing Deiphobus was still out on the borders, away from the battle. On the other side, the armies of each of the high lords carried their own symbols. Hector rode under the standard of Argos, Patroclus beside him, head to toe in gleaming armor. Patroclus’ presence calmed him, if anything. These moments before the storm, anxious men around him, he knew how it was. But for the first time, he felt nothing except a quiet weariness, astride his horse as the masses around him made for the east.  
\---

“Seems suspicious,” Patroclus whispered, as they reached their first campsite. 

“That the council reached a decision so quickly?” Hector raised an eyebrow. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?” 

“I wonder what they had to do to convince Agamemnon. He’s notoriously difficult to persuade.” 

The movements around them began to disperse, tired soldiers making the last inspections on their tents, fires put out. The smell of woodsmoke permeated through the air, overlapping with the other scents Hector had learned time and time again. He had made his last reports to General Idomeneus, but there was a certain closed-off air to the generals’ tent, nothing like the bustling, open activity he was used to seeing in previous battles. There were secrets being kept here, and it made his head ache, his eyes itch, the anticipation spreading slowly like a disease. 

“I’ve never seen an army like this before,” Patroclus confessed, under the covers in their tent. 

“Neither have I. You think we can defeat them through numbers alone?” 

“Hard to say. The Achaeans will be ready for us, especially with what Agamemnon did to their men.”

Hector drew closer to Patroclus, until they were face to face in the pallet they shared.  
“Tomorrow we march,” he said, even though he didn’t want to hear himself speaking the words. It was always hard to sleep on nights like this, knowing their enemies were hardly far away. This wouldn’t be like Lyrnessus, narrow streets and trickery. They would be on the field, facing a sea of Achaeans, and every second would count.  
\---

It was bright and early when the soldiers left their tents, the entire camp in a frenzy as shields were hastily retrieved, the unit commanders barking orders left and right. Agamemnon’s men had already formed their lines and started marching north. Hector recognized General Deucalion ahead of the lines, a perfect formation under his strict command. 

Gradually, the other troops began to follow, infantry and cavalry alike. It was the most number of horses Hector had ever seen in battle, many of them ridden by Danaans. There had once been a time when the cavalry was limited to aristocrats, but as the cost of maintaining horses grew, the Danaans slowly dominated the field. 

“Why aren’t we following them?” Hector wondered, squinting after the departing troops. They were the only unit remaining in the camp, awaiting General Idomeneus’ orders. Patroclus frowned at this, taking in the number of men, eyes raking over the empty tents in suspicion. 

Before they could jump to conclusions, General Idomeneus emerged, calling the men to attention. 

“General,” Hector saluted. “Should we not be heading to the field?” 

The general shook his head. “We have been assigned a separate mission.” 

What? 

“And we are only hearing of this now?” Hector demanded.

Idomeneus seemed to share his sentiments, but did not voice them. “It was a recent decision, made by the council. I drew straws with the other generals, you can guess what happened.” Idomeneus gave a wry smile. “Either way, there are few of us, and we will be traveling light. We will follow the mountain pass to the city of Dardanus and scout the walls until word reaches us of the oncoming troops.” 

All the men were silent for a while, taking in the general’s words. Hector felt Patroclus place a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find that he had gone pale.

“They plan to attack the city itself?” 

Dardanus had been under the Myrmidon Warlord’s rule for some time now, barred from the outside world. No one went in, and no one went out, save for the soldiers. The Achaean army under the Warlord’s authority controlled the roads, which was what had made Dardanus so difficult to recover in the first place. 

“Menelaus’ plan,” Patroclus whispered, right in Hector’s ear. “He is the mind behind all of this.” 

Hector paused to consider this, thinking back to the sheer numbers from Argos sent to meet the Achaeans on the battlefield.  
“They are going to split up,” he realized. Agamemnon’s men, and his supporters, meeting the Achaeans head-on in battle. Meanwhile, Menelaus’ army would bypass the deserted roads, heading for the city itself. The Achaeans wouldn’t know what was coming. What had gone on in that council meeting? 

“We will scale the walls and ensure the gates are open for our men. No matter what happens, they must be inside the city before the Achaeans realize what is happening. Understood?” The general eyed each of them in turn, making sure the stakes were clear to them.  
\---

“What do you think?” Hector asked, as they set off for the mountain pass. It was the best way a small unit like theirs could travel undetected, as it would be very difficult for the sentries posted at the city gates to notice them unless they knew what to look for. 

“I’m not sure,” Patroclus replied, looking troubled. “Menelaus has more influence than expected. It seems I underestimated him.” 

Hector began to recognize what it was that had been bothering him all this while. “Agamemnon isn’t known for large numbers. He’s always won battles with the skill of his knights. Is it possible that the Sons of Tros are funding this army?” 

“We know they are sponsoring Menelaus’ troops, at the very least,” Patroclus affirmed. “The other lords of the council simply don’t have the wealth to send their men to war. Until now.” 

So Menelaus had managed to win their favor, it seemed, by outfitting their troops and providing the army’s supplies. All with the priesthood’s money. It was the first time Agamemnon had slipped. There was no way he would have agreed to an attack on the city otherwise, unless the other members had outvoted him.  
\---

As they hiked further up the mountain trail, the city of Dardanus came into view. A once great land under Argive rule, it had gained autonomy and remained neutral ground over the centuries. Sometimes known as the City of Peace, where Argives and Achaeans alike were welcome, as it refused to participate in any of the skirmishes. Until the Myrmidons. 

Patroclus was dead quiet as they moved further towards the city, his mouth set in a grim line. Hector remembered, then. Dardanus had been conquered nearly a year ago. Patroclus would have still been among the Achaeans, then. Perhaps even engaged to the Warlord’s son, by that time. This was not unfamiliar territory for him. 

Light rainfall had begun as they neared the city walls, the road turning muddy. It was going to be harder to scale the wall, the stone becoming too slippery for the soles of their boots to grip. They would have to make quick work of it. 

“To me,” the general whispered, beckoning the men to stand ready. The plan had been made clear to them up on the mountain. As they got closer to the city, they would flank the walls on both sides, avoiding the main entrance. If they were successful, it wouldn’t be long before the sentries were alerted. They would have to hold them off, keeping the gates open for Menelaus’ troops to storm the city. 

They split up, General Idomeneus leading the first half of their unit over to the eastern wall, Hector leading the second to the other side. They had been right to travel light, moving silently along the walls, but it would become a disadvantage once they were faced with fully armed guards in far more protective gear. Their fates would rest on how quickly Menelaus’ army could reach the city.

As the first man began his ascent, Patroclus pulled Hector aside. “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “I’m finding it hard to believe Dardanus would be left defenseless, even without the majority of the Achaean troops.” 

“You think they would anticipate this?” Hector questioned, the urgency rising in his tone as he imagined the consequences. 

Patroclus shook his head. “To this extent? No. But the Myrmidons conquered Dardanus for a reason, Hector. The Warlord and his son are experienced strategists. If anything, we should be ready for a close fight.” 

Hector nodded, patting the side that his sword was strapped to. “We’ll be ready.” 

Up ahead, the first line of soldiers made it over, using their grappling hooks to hoist themselves over the wall. Hector caught hold of the attached rope, using his upper body to support his weight as he tried not to slip on the stone. Patroclus climbed up next to him, panting slightly as his hands gripped the rope, feet catching the gaps between the stones. They were both covered in sweat by the time they reached the top of the wall. 

“They’re nearly at the gate,” Hector pointed out, as General Idomeneus and his men reached the main entrance, ready to slaughter the guards. 

They waited for the rest of their team to make it over the wall, and rushed to secure the other entrances. “The watchtower,” Patroclus frowned, squinting up at the sentries’ main station. The rain was coming down so hard now they had to shield their eyes in order to see. “Why hasn’t the alarm been sounded?” 

The guards posted there should have noticed them as soon as they emerged from the walls, especially in a large group. Instead, there was no sign of movement, no tolling of the bells to signal an enemy attack. 

“It’s too quiet.” 

Hector led Patroclus and the other men through the streets, confused at how deserted they seemed. It was a ghost town, the guards nowhere to be found, General Idomeneus and the rest of the unit hauling the gates open with no resistance. 

“What’s happening?” one of the other soldiers asked. “Where is everyone?” 

Patroclus stopped short, blocking the rest of them from moving forward.  
“We should retreat,” he whispered, eyes going a little wide. 

“What?” 

“There is something wrong going on here.” 

“Has everyone _left_?” the soldier continued, becoming frustrated. 

“An entire city, evacuated? Impossible. They would have nowhere to go. This isn’t a small town like Lyrnessus.” Hector looked around him, the perturbation growing deep in his gut. “Let’s regroup with General Idomeneus and see what he has to say.” 

They had rounded back to the main gates when they came across a civilian, crossing the street in a hurry. The man caught sight of them and froze, features becoming panicked as he registered that they were soldiers. 

“Wait!” Hector called as the man launched into a sprint, moving faster than he had initially seemed capable of. “Stop that man!” They went after him, struggling to keep track even though the lighter armor they wore lent them more speed.  
“Where’d he go?” 

“What the fuck?” Patroclus exclaimed, glancing round at the empty streets, no sign of the man anymore. They continued to search, but there was no telling where he had disappeared to. They searched the houses, which appeared to be recently abandoned. 

“We’re wasting time,” Hector decided. “Let’s find the general.” 

General Idomeneus and the rest of their unit were nowhere to be found when they finally made it back to the gates. Growing even more anxious, they retraced their steps, keeping an eye out. “This is disturbing,” Hector muttered, as they circled round to the center of the city, past the residential areas and into the main square. The rain had lightened a little. 

Dardanus’ main square was a vast space of cobbled stone, its temples towering above them. Or what was left of the temples. “Gods.” A few of them had been burned to the ground, crumbled into pieces, the remains of the statues within lying around the square and left untended. It was clear that the Achaeans had sacked the city when they conquered it, destroying the Dardanians’ religious center and defacing their gods. 

“I never knew it was this bad,” Hector whispered, the sight around him becoming more eerie the longer he looked. Patroclus had gone white, eyes fixed on a statue of Io that had toppled over, the gold decorations having been forcibly removed. 

They were in the middle of examining the ruins when the civilian man appeared again. Hector beckoned the others to join them, watching the man cautiously. He was about to speak when the man made a sharp whistle, and out of the corners, other figures began to emerge. They didn’t stop until they had filled the square, the Dardanians who had abandoned their homes. 

“Where are they coming from?” Hector asked in disbelief. From the look of it, they were all civilians. And … they were armed. 

“We should have retreated,” Patroclus said, just as the Dardanians started to close in on them.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Never, in all his life, had he ever imagined drawing his sword against the citizens of Dardanus. Men, and women, some clad in ill-fitting armor, others going without. His unit was dreadfully outnumbered, even if they did have the fighting skills. And there was a certain wrongness about killing people they had never expected to fight. Untrained, inexperienced people, but furious all the same, attacking them without abandon. Close up, he could see they had armed themselves with whatever they could get their hands on. These people were desperate. But why? 

He had no time to think of it as he cut through the swarm of people coming his way, some swinging wildly. Even without training it was possible to hurt someone that way. He kept his eye open for Patroclus, even though it was becoming all too easy to lose sight of everyone else in the crowd. Why were the Dardanians attacking them? How could they have even predicted that the Argives would sneak into their city? 

It became clearer the longer he faced them, watching several fleeing only to be replaced by others. They seemed to disappear between the buildings, and he had a feeling he was close to discovering something significant. “Patroclus!” he called. 

“Over here!” Patroclus was busy fending off a group that had nearly surrounded him. Even as he managed to parry with his sword, others came from behind and grabbed at him. Hector’s stomach lurched at the sight, trying to get to Patroclus, but he was quickly becoming overwhelmed. He slashed at the attackers, meeting every strike, but they were coming in from all sides. 

Out of the corner of his eye, one of them jumped out at him, and he was too late catching the blade. It pierced through his thigh, streams of red starting to flow, and for a second, he was transfixed as he stared down at it. He could barely feel it, even though it was plain as day, all the red, seeping down into his boots. There was so much of it.

He tried to breathe, moving his sword arm, but it wouldn’t cooperate. He barely registered that he had fallen to his knees, and could hardly hear the masses around him anymore, the sounds of their voices fading off into the distance. Each breath became shorter, the pain taking hold of him, and he was grabbed, his arms wrenched behind him, kicked in the back before he could even struggle. 

They dragged him away, and he couldn’t even see if any one of his men had escaped. General Idomeneus and the unit were probably dead, he thought. They moved him into one of the buildings, a flurry of movements, and then his head bumped the wall as he was thrown down, down into a dark space, a … tunnel. 

He could feel his body start to protest as he bore the brunt of the fall, his captors climbing down and hauling him up again, panting as they moved through the passage. It was so dark his eyes could barely see, but it was cool, and musty. They were underground. What on earth? 

“Where are you taking me?” he managed, teeth gritted against the pain. Gods, he needed to stop the bleeding, or else … They continued moving, and it seemed as though his captors couldn’t handle his weight any longer. They stopped and switched hands, carrying him further through. He forced himself to take in his surroundings. Tunnels. This was where the citizens had disappeared to. They had been hiding. But why come out, when they hadn’t been discovered? Why attack? 

“I’m from Argos,” Hector bit out, and watched as his captors paused, glancing at each other in uncertainty. “I’m part of a unit who was sent to hold off the Achaean guards.” He let out a breath, wincing. “We are not your enemies.” 

“Shut it,” one of them hissed, but his tone was worried. 

He started to see why, once they reached their destination, an encampment of sorts in an underground chamber. He could see now that there were several tunnels leading in and out of the chamber, many of them unfinished. How long had it taken the Dardanians to dig, to build these passageways? He could see it was a prisoners’ camp. 

The watchtower had been empty. The gates to the city left untended. And the Achaean guards … here underground, held by the civilians, stripped of their weapons and armor. While the Achaean army fought against the Argives, the Dardanians had started a revolt. They were being held hostage.


	8. Chapter 8

General Idomeneus was alive, at least. That much he could gather, as he was brought to his own men, a cluster of scruffy tents their only shelter. “They didn’t know who we were,” Hector breathed out, half-blind from the pain. The general’s face above him was hazy, the darkness not helping much, either. 

“W-we have to convince them we were here to fight the Achaeans.”

“Hector, you’ve lost a lot of blood.” Idomeneus pressed at the wound on his thigh, applying pressure. 

“Who’s their leader? You have to - have to talk …”

“I will,” Idomeneus cut in. “Once they send someone to tend to your wound.”

“You -”

“Stop talking, Hector.”

“Was anyone killed? … Patroclus?” 

“He’s over there with the others. They knocked him unconscious, but he’s alive.” 

Hector breathed a sigh of relief, the nerves finally subsiding. 

“You!” He heard Idomeneus yell. “This man needs a medic!” 

A rush of voices, the Dardanians assigned to watch them sounding anxious. 

“They’re not going to help,” Hector whispered. 

Idomeneus got up and stormed out of the tent. 

He could hear voices being raised, Idomeneus rattling off their unit number, the name of their contingent, all the while sounding like he wanted to murder someone. 

Several moments later, someone came in and looked at the wound. 

“Well?” Idomeneus asked, hovering outside the tent. 

“I can stop the bleeding.” The medic removed the strips of cloth Idomeneus had wrapped around Hector’s thigh. There was some shuffling around, and Hector squinted as the man began to work, lighting up some coals. 

“Oh _gods_.”

“You’ll have to be brave, soldier.” 

“You’re going to cauterize it.”

“We can’t have you losing any more blood.” The medic placed his hands above the coals, making sure they were hot enough. 

“How long has this been going on?” He heard the man hesitate. “And this … place. Has it always been here?” 

“I’m not supposed to talk to you.” 

“Then who? Who do we talk to?” 

“Ready now.” The medic rolled up a length of cloth, gently placing it into Hector’s mouth. “Bite down.” He heated up a rod of iron, carefully rolling it into the coals until the tip glowed a bright orange. Idomeneus watched silently, eyes tracing the medic’s every movement. 

If he hadn’t been muffled, his screams could have woken the dead. Heat seared through his leg, the smell of burning flesh reaching his nose, and he gagged, choking on the cloth as his chest heaved. Idomeneus came over to hold his arms down, to stop him from flailing and hurting himself even more. 

“It’s done.” 

It was an angry heap of flesh, glaring against the skin of his thigh, but the bleeding had, in fact, stopped. 

“Now let’s hope infection doesn’t set in.” The medic got up to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Idomeneus demanded. 

“I’ll be right back.”

“He better be,” the general growled, looking closer at Hector and examining the closed wound. “It will have to do,” he said. 

“Do you know who their leader is?”

“Shut up. You’re wearing yourself out.”

Hector nodded. It was uncomfortable, the hard ground doing nothing for his agony. 

“I’ll ask him to get you something for the pain.”

“Will you see if Patroclus is alright?”

Idomeneus stared back at him. “I will. You know, I never thought you’d ever get married.”

Hector scoffed, trying not to move his leg. “To a Danaan, you mean.”

“To anyone.”

There was a silence as Hector considered the words. Idomeneus knew him better than most. This was a man he respected, even if he hadn’t thought much of the wars they’d fought together. The general had led many troops efficiently, and few men died under his command. 

“I don’t pretend to understand you aristocrats,” Idomeneus conceded, finally. “At least you didn’t marry a halfwit.” 

It made Hector laugh, forgetting about the pain for just a moment. “You’re just bitter that you weren’t invited to the wedding.” 

“Mm. Can’t say I care much for weddings.”

“Is it because your wife ran off with that baker?” He heard the general snort. It had been a while since they were able to talk like this. Of course, that was how it was when they only saw each other during the most dire situations. 

The medic returned with several jars and a mortar and pestle. He began to pound ingredients, mixing them together to form a poultice. Slowly, he spread the thick paste over Hector’s wound. “This should hopefully speed up the healing.” He took several clean strips of cloth and wrapped them gently around Hector’s thigh. “Change the dressings three times a day. I’ll be back to give you the poultice again.” 

Hector shifted on the ground and accepted more bandages from the medic. This wound was going to have him out for a few weeks, if it healed successfully, he thought grumpily.   
\---

It was not only difficult to move, but to sleep, as well. General Idomeneus had gone to see to the other men, and he was left alone in the tent. He tried his best to observe what went on outside, but the Dardanians had mostly dispersed. They needed to find out about the revolt and whether the Dardanians were willing to cooperate with them. And of course, they had no idea if the Argives or Achaeans would be arriving at the gates after the battle. 

The throbbing in his leg kept him from falling completely asleep, no matter how fatigued the blood loss had made him. His throat was dry, desperate for water, but though the Dardanians didn’t bother restraining him and his unit, they were reluctant to approach them. He could see a few Achaean guards tied to posts on the other side of the chamber, if he squinted out the tent far enough. The Dardanians kept close watch on them.

Someone was lifting his head and tucking a pillow underneath it when he realized he had drifted off. He cracked open his eyes and let out a breath of relief when he saw it was Patroclus, kneeling next to him with some blankets piled at his feet. 

“Let me look at it,” Patroclus muttered, removing the bandages around Hector’s wound, several fresh ones at the ready. His hands worked swiftly, changing the dressing without putting too much pressure on the wound. 

“Are they here yet?” Hector asked, rubbing at his eyes to keep the grogginess away. “Menelaus’ army?” 

Patroclus shook his head. “No word. If the guards had been where they were supposed to be, we might be dead by now.”

“Perhaps the Achaeans’ scouts noticed them and chased them down.”

“It’s possible,” Patroclus sighed. He looked tired and upset, dark circles beginning to form under his eyes. His normally neat hair fell over his face. The Dardanians had stripped him of his armor so he only wore a thin undershirt and soldier’s breeches. “Depending on how willing the Dardanians are to negotiate, we could be stuck here for weeks. I never thought … I never imagined there would be a place like this. No one would ever find us on their own.” His voice lacked its usual drive. Hector had never heard him sound so drained before. He reached up and took Patroclus’ hand, if only to show him he was there, whether it brought any comfort or not. 

The touch seemed to wake Patroclus from his thoughts. He looked down at Hector’s hand, squeezed it, and that sharp attentiveness was back in his gaze again. “I’m going to get you a bedroll,” he said. He frowned at the tent. “You can’t sleep on hard ground. You’re injured.” It _was_ very uncomfortable, the coolness of the rock settling right through Hector’s clothes, the rough surface scratching at his skin. 

“Alright,” Hector said, and dozed off again.   
\---

He could hear Patroclus and General Idomeneus conversing the next time he woke up. They had been able to speak to the Dardanians who had organized the revolt. The Dardanians were uncertain on how to handle them. While the Argives weren’t necessarily the enemy, they could very well become one if Argos won the war and refused to grant Dardanus its independence. 

“They’ve been an autonomous state for centuries,” Patroclus admitted. 

“But the goal was to take them from the Achaeans. To reconsolidate them into Argive territory, like they were originally,” Idomeneus replied. “It might be unwise to mention this to the leaders.”

“I don’t think they want us here at all. But they need to keep us as leverage. The fighting must be close, if the battle isn’t over yet.” 

“Can I have some water?” Hector croaked, voice raspy. Both Idomeneus and Patroclus turned to look at him, surprised he was awake. Patroclus got up and took a flask into the tent. He must have convinced one of the Dardanians to give them better commodities, at some point. Hector noticed his back wasn’t sore anymore, Patroclus had moved him while he was asleep onto a bedroll and covered him with some blankets. His leg still hurt, but the pain had become more deep-seated in his muscles, no longer sharp and throbbing. 

“I’m feeling much better,” Hector insisted. “Perhaps tomorrow we can all talk with the Dardanians?” 

Patroclus lifted his head carefully, handing him the flask so he could drink. “I think you should get more rest. The general and I can handle it.” 

“But -”

“I’ll let you know as soon as we get word of who arrives at the gates,” Patroclus cut in, pushing Hector’s hair off his forehead. “I promise.” 

Hector nodded, and went back to sleep.   
\---

He didn’t know how many hours or days passed. He could hear Patroclus and Idomeneus deep in conversation outside the tent, their voices sometimes urgent and hushed; other times they sounded weary. He tried his hardest to listen, but his body was determined to drift in and out of sleep, dreams clouding his mind until he wasn’t always sure when he was awake anymore. At one point he felt fully alert, Patroclus’ face staring down at him worriedly. His teeth were chattering, even though he was covered in blankets, and he didn’t even notice the pain anymore. 

“You have a fever,” Patroclus said, voice gentle, but Hector could only frown up at him. He was fine, really. He just couldn’t seem to get up. 

“We’ll go talk to the Dardanians tomorrow,” he replied, and his voice came out echoey and distant, as though he were underwater. He wondered what that look in Patroclus’ eyes was, he almost seemed … scared. There was nothing to be afraid of, there would be some difficulty with the Dardanians perhaps, but it was only a matter of time before the Argives came to collect them. His vision slipped, drowning in dreams again, and there were times he would slide into consciousness for just a few seconds, only to lose it. Patroclus’ and Idomeneus’ voices played in his head, far away and growing fainter.   
\---

He had a fever. He knew it. His wound had gotten infected and he was covered in sweat, the medic coming by for bloodletting. He was more conscious now than before, even though he still slept a lot, and he cursed himself for the days he had wasted, not being able to hear what had happened with the Dardanians. Patroclus would tell him and he would forget, or be too tired to listen, even though he tried to pay attention. His body wasn’t cooperating. All this from a single blade, and not even in a critical area. 

They had been here for a week, he thought, maybe more. If his fever didn’t break, he wouldn’t wake up again to hear the outcome of the war.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of low voices outside jolted him awake, the men in his unit muttering together. It was bright in the tent, someone had brought in a lamp and left it in the corner. He was feeling hot and stuffy underneath the blanket, so he pushed it off, and blinked several times to adjust to the light. He reached a hand up to his forehead, where the sweat had cooled. He was uncomfortable, and thirsty, but for the first time in days he felt truly awake. His fever had broken. 

There was a warm weight next to him and he looked down to see Patroclus, pressed against his side, face buried in his arm. Asleep. He found himself gazing down at the other man, a strange feeling entering his chest. There were times when he thought he knew Patroclus, understood him, even liked him. Other times, they were two strangers who shared a bed. Looking at this now, he felt a tinge of something he had missed, something he had chosen to forget. That feeling of closeness, of ...tenderness. He shook his head, reaching out to stroke Patroclus’ side. There was something he’d given up, the minute he had chosen to embrace his fate, the minute he’d decided to take things into his own hands. But the thought of having that feeling again … no. This wasn’t that. He placed a hand on his chest, to silence the slow curl of warmth that had begun. 

Craning his neck, he tried to listen to the men outside, hoping he would catch word of what was going on. 

“... don’t have proper fortifications -”

“They’re not going to grant Dardanus independence.”

“So are they going to just leave us here?” 

“It’ll only be a matter of time until they breach the city walls.”

Hector frowned, trying to make sense of the words. So the army had arrived, but it seemed as though the Dardanians had emerged from their hiding place and were actively trying to keep them out. That didn’t bode well for them. The Dardanians had been diplomatic so far, but would it change?   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus was awake in the next few minutes, and Hector could see the relief on his face when he saw that the fever had broken. He propped Hector up on the bedroll and brought him something to eat. “Argos has won,” he stated. “But it’s a far more complicated situation than we imagined.” 

“How so?” 

“It was an extremely close fight. Menelaus’ army was on its way to us when they were called back to lend aid. We were being defeated. The fighting went on for three days, and eventually a portion of the Achaeans retreated to replenish their resources. Our troops finally defeated the remaining Achaeans on the battlefield, but as they arrived to capture Dardanus, the Achaeans who retreated started fortifying the city walls. Now they’re camped outside, and the Achaeans are defending the city. The Dardanians are unsure how to proceed.” 

“You were right,” Hector sighed. “We could be stuck here for a while.” 

Patroclus settled down next to him again. “General Idomeneus and I have been negotiating with the Dardanians. Their governor was executed when the Myrmidons conquered the city. They’ve been working on this revolt for nearly a year, Hector. They’re not going to give it up. And they _hate_ the Achaeans.” 

“So no chance of them banding together with the troops who are currently in the city?” 

Patroclus grimaced. “They also refuse to be under Argive territory again.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------

It took a long time for him to move around again, but while he was stuck recovering in the tent, Patroclus and Idomeneus continued their talks with the leaders of the revolt. The digging of the tunnels had started a little over a year ago, but it seemed the underground area was a well-kept secret that they had managed to conceal even from the Achaeans. Dardanus had once been two cities, not one, but several centuries ago a massive earthquake had caused the destruction of the lower levels, forcing the inhabitants to evacuate. 

“You should see what the other tunnels lead to,” Patroclus had said, a burst of excitement Hector hadn’t seen in a while. “There are these ruins from the underground city, you can still see where some of the buildings and houses were. I’ll take you there, when you can walk a little further.” 

It was normally a hassle trying to stand up without someone to support him. Patroclus had taken him around their encampment, pointing out the surrounding tunnels and the areas where they were free to roam. Several of the Dardanians stood by as guards, but mostly to keep an eye on the Achaean prisoners and their inventories for food supplies, weapons, and armor. 

As the weeks passed, the Dardanians began to carry out organized attacks on the Achaean army still within the city walls. It became more and more difficult to conceal their hiding place, especially if one of them was caught and interrogated by the army. Their supplies would not last them for very long. It became clearer that the time would come when the Dardanians would have to surrender or start working with the Achaeans to drive the Argives out of the city. 

The problem was, of course, that they were cut off from their resources. This had become a siege on the city, and the Argives were free to call for reinforcements whenever they needed. The Achaeans and Dardanians were trapped, but that didn’t stop them from putting up a fight.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tunnels were hard on his injured leg, rocky and steep, dark enough that he could slip and fall if he didn’t watch hard enough. But he had an arm around Patroclus’ shoulder, steadily supported, and they traveled slowly. It was a long way, but eventually the light of several hundred lamps reached them, and they stepped out into a large cavern, nearly as wide as central Argos itself. 

He caught his breath at the sight, an entire array of buildings and streets, many of them crumbled to pieces, but some were intact. This had once been a functioning city. A wonder, to have something like this beneath the earth, something outsiders knew nothing about. 

He and Patroclus wandered through the abandoned streets, passing old shophouses, offices and temples. The buildings were made of a sandy brick, some of the paint still visible. There were colorful murals depicting everyday life, worship of the gods, and trade in the markets. 

“I wonder why they built this place,” Hector murmured, studying his surroundings in awe. 

Patroclus was silent next to him. “Perhaps there were two tribes. Much like our people,” he replied. 

“Don’t get me wrong, this place is amazing. But imagine living like this … never seeing the light of day.” 

Patroclus caught his eye, and he became aware it was just the two of them, alone in the remains of what had once been home to an entire nation.  
\---

Later that night, a thought crossed his mind that he hadn’t imagined giving voice to before.   
“What are they like?” he asked, laying on his uninjured side to avoid putting pressure on his leg. 

Patroclus gave him a puzzled frown. “Who?” 

“The Myrmidons.”

A whirl of emotions flickered over Patroclus’ face, before he schooled his expression. 

“We have been fighting them for hundreds of years. And … we know nothing about them. Nothing at all, except that they don’t worship our gods.” 

Patroclus raised an eyebrow. “I can’t say I’ve ever been asked that question before.” 

“Humor me,” Hector replied, propping himself up on his elbow. 

Patroclus gave a long sigh, looking resigned, but not displeased. “They are excellent craftsmen. Most people don’t know that, but we’re so used to thinking of them as nothing but savage barbarians. My father - he started trading with them, when Sthenelus and I were just children. He would never admit it now. Sthenelus was never interested in trade, but I would accompany father on his trips to the Achaean trade villages. There was always some sort of clan war going on, it could be dangerous … and exciting.” 

He smiled, thinking of the memory. “The Myrmidons were a smaller tribe, rarely included in the greater Achaean government that ruled over Ilium and the rest. But when Peleus took control of their army, they began expanding. Their small victories turned into greater ones. Eventually, they began conquering territories in the far east. My father was beginning to cut off ties with them, as he became more involved in Argive high society. But I … I stayed.” 

He looked straight at Hector, as though asking if he really wanted to hear the rest. At Hector’s nod, he continued. “Their gods are brutal, animalistic, raw. They are forces of nature. And the Achaeans … they have a devotion to those gods like I had never witnessed before. Every kill they made in battle, every item they created with their hands … their belief was so complete, so primal, nothing like the quiet temple days in Argos I remembered. It could be ugly, and it could be beautiful.” 

His gaze was far away now, as though he was watching the scene right before him. He seemed to catch himself, and glanced at Hector again. “They don’t think like us, Hector.” 

“Do you miss it at all?” 

There was a long silence, as Patroclus contemplated this. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Coming back to Argos, it all washed over me again. Our politics, our schemes, all to gain the upper hand. The Achaeans are not a gentle people, but … they were far from complicated. If they wanted to ruin you, they did it to your face.” Patroclus grimaced. “And then I realized how much I fit in with the rest of Argos. Our scheming and our plotting, well … that was how I had gotten close to the Myrmidons in the first place. I would always be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, I would … never be one of them.” 

It was something to think about. “Perhaps you were never a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Hector added. “Just a wolf among lions.”

Patroclus stared back at him, a thoughtful look crossing his face. 

Hector settled back against the bed. “Tell me more.” 

And so they lay there, until morning, Patroclus recounting the years he’d spent with the Myrmidons. It was the first time Hector had heard of their long-time enemies, the first he’d ever thought of them as more than a mindless killing machine. But the more Patroclus spoke, the more he wanted to listen, to learn about these people whom they had warred with for generations.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In their second month underground, the Argives returned with siege weapons to break through the city walls. The Dardanians around them started to panic, setting up defensive barriers around the tunnel entrances in fear that they would be discovered. 

“Someone has to get up to the surface, so we can notify the other generals that we’re still alive,” General Idomeneus announced. 

“That takes away the Dardanians’ leverage,” Patroclus shook his head. “They still need us as bargaining tools.” 

“You really think the high lords are going to let go of Dardanus for our lives?” Idomeneus questioned. “We’re a small unit. We’ll have to get out of here on our own.” 

Patroclus looked back at Hector, pursing his lips in uncertainty. Their armor and weapons had been confiscated. There was no way they could cut through the Dardanians in order to send a message to the army. 

“We’ll have to join forces with them,” Patroclus said. “They might not trust us, but we’re trained soldiers and have fought the Achaeans before. We can help them organize their attacks on the Achaeans. If we manage to get up to the surface, one of us will have to break away and send a message to our generals.” 

“I’ll do it,” General Idomeneus volunteered. “I’ll contact the Dardanians too, and tell them we know how to defeat the Achaean army.” 

It was no small task. The army’s garrison was near the city walls, where it would be hard to remain unnoticed if they sneaked out of their hiding place. So far, the Dardanians’ attacks had only targeted soldiers on the move. They hadn’t thought to infiltrate the army’s home base. 

“You’ll have to go out at night, when most of the army will be at their barracks,” Hector guessed. “Someone will have to find out the night sentries’ positions and schedule rotations. When they switch shifts, it will be the best time to attack. And then General Idomeneus can sneak out of the gates and let our men know that we’re here.” 

It took some convincing for the Dardanians to allow them to join in, but their plan to orchestrate an attack on the garrison turned aside any doubts. This was what the Dardanians had needed, to get rid of the Achaeans once and for all.   
\----------------------------------

“I wish I could go with you,” Hector said, on the night of the attack. He was tasked with organizing the defenses underground, in case they were pursued by the Achaeans away from the garrison’s base. 

“I’ll be careful,” Patroclus replied, trying to sound reassuring. He was back in his armor, ready to set off for the surface. He placed a hand around Hector’s neck, drawing him in for a quick embrace. “If I don’t come back, promise me you’ll wait here. General Idomeneus knows what he’s doing. I don’t want you running off and getting killed. There is still hope you can get back to Argos.” 

Hector hesitated, because it was a lot to ask. He’d never been immobilized before, forced to stand back while the others risked their lives all over again. “I don’t want to go back to Argos without you,” he whispered, feeling a churning in his gut. He saw Patroclus blink, taking a moment to collect himself. 

“Let’s not think of that now,” Patroclus replied, patting Hector on the arm, but not looking at him. He went to join the other men heading for the garrison, without turning back.   
\-----------------------------------

Hector did what he could, instructing the Dardanians to build palisades around the boundaries of the cavern. He had them form lines at the tunnel entrances, ready to intercept anyone who made it through. They would be prepared, at least. The attack on the garrison was going to be messy, especially since the Achaeans were already on edge from the siege. 

All they could do was lay low and wait. Their scouts were posted all around the city, ready to signal them if the attack on the garrison failed. It was cold and dark at the mouth of the cavern, men crouched in their lines. Hector could hear the other men whispering, some uttering prayers. The man next to him was clutching a small amulet of Io, hands shaking as he asked for protection, again and again. 

Several hours passed, and the inactivity became unbearable. He knew the men who had gone up were probably in the same position, waiting for the sentries to change shifts. The time they had to launch their attack was narrow, and allowed for no mistakes. 

It must have been near dawn when the first scout emerged to report that the fighting had broken out. The garrison might have been caught unprepared, but they were still highly trained soldiers against a small group of Argives and many more inexperienced Dardanians. 

Hector’s knees burned from staying on the ground for so long, his heart thumped wildly. He wanted nothing more than to leap up, to burst through the tunnels and join the Argives above. But he forced himself to take a deep breath, to murmur reassuring words at the Dardanians around him.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“They’ve taken the garrison!” came a shout from above, and the men started to rise, the elation evident on their faces as they registered the words.   
“The Achaeans are defeated!” Shouts and cheers began to echo around the chamber, the first true victory the Dardanians had experienced. The scout disappeared again, but the men were already straggling from their lines, each clambering up through the tunnels to catch their first glimpse of the commotion. 

Hector was eager to see it for himself. He hopped slowly out of his position, bracing himself on two of the men to climb into the tunnel. He leaned against the wall and used it as a support as he limped through the passageway, pausing to let the other men pass. 

He was starting to reach the exit when he realized he’d taken a wrong turn. He’d chosen one of the tunnels leading to the other side of the city, far from the garrison where Patroclus and the others were. Turning around, he realized he would have to trace his way back slowly, so it made more sense to reach the exit and find his way once he was on the surface. Hastily, he limped through to the end, but overestimated his stride and ended up on his knees. Gods _damn_ his injured leg. 

He was beginning to pick himself up and dust himself off when he heard them.

“- already outside the gates, with the Argives.” 

“You think they’ve betrayed us?”

“Why else would their general run off like that? They wanted us to do their dirty work for them. And now the fucker is going to tell the Argives where we’ve been hiding.”

“But they can’t get in the city yet.” 

“Oh, they won’t, especially when we still have their men.” 

_Fuck_. The Dardanians had spotted General Idomeneus sneaking away to rejoin the Argive army outside the city. He had to warn Patroclus. 

Slowly, he turned around and started his journey to the opposite side, cursing at how much time it was taking him. How long would it take until the other Dardanians were made aware of the recent developments? 

He was shaking and soaked through with sweat by the time he found the exit. It was only a few streets away from the garrison’s main building, but he had to hurry. He climbed out, avoiding any Dardanians he saw, and took cover against the walls of nearby buildings. It was good to be out in the fresh air, at least. He kept an eye out for any of his men, scanning the roads for Argive armor. 

He was about to make for the garrison when a hand shot out and covered his mouth, dragging him into the building. 

“It’s me!” Patroclus hissed, before he could struggle. They kept away from the window. 

“The Dardanians think we betrayed them!” 

“Well that’s news to me!” Patroclus whispered, rolling his eyes. 

“Shit,” Hector growled. “What are we going to do now?” 

“Pray that Argos has no intentions of being diplomatic and sends a rescue force to retrieve us?” Patroclus offered. 

“The Dardanians will be looking for us. We can’t hide in plain sight like this,” Hector sighed. 

“They started turning on us as soon as they noticed Idomeneus was gone,” Patroclus groaned. “Two of our men are dead, Hector.” 

“Io, it’s getting light outside.” 

“Let’s take off our armor. They won’t recognize us from a distance, at least.” 

It was a risk, but worth trying. 

They spent the rest of the day moving from building to building, back alley to back alley, keeping their faces hidden and avoiding the Dardanians. Hector’s leg was burning, the pain reigniting full force. Eventually he collapsed against a wall, gulping down air, his face crumpled as he tried to work through it. 

“Patroclus, just go and try to get through the gates. Leave me here.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“They’ll find us here any moment. We’re in the middle of the street!” 

Patroclus glared at him, eyes going stormy. He looked like he wanted to punch Hector in the throat.   
“I am not. Fucking. Leaving you here.” 

Hector sighed, raking his hands over his face. “Fine, fine. Just give me a moment, alright?” The moment passed, and he tried to get up again, but fell back against the stone. Patroclus caught him and held him up. “Put your arm around me.” They moved, one foot in front of the other, but they were beginning to hear Dardanian voices not far away, and there was nowhere else they could hide.

“I’m slowing us down, Patroclus. Go, now. This is your only chance.” 

“No.” 

He cursed. Why did Patroclus have to be so stubborn? The voices were getting nearer. They were going to get caught. 

“Why are you doing this?” Hector moaned. 

“We’ll think of something,” Patroclus replied, voice firm, even though his expression grew more alarmed as the Dardanians rounded the corner and spotted them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Wartime violence, murder.

They had been placed in a small prison, two Dardanians standing guard outside to block the exit. It looked to be part of an unfinished tunnel, and was nearly pitch black, the ground underneath and around them cold and hard. Every time Hector moved, the rock would scratch against his skin, tearing at it so he had cuts and blisters all over him. He tried to stay still, but there was a cramp in his leg, the muscles screaming to be stretched. The room was so small he couldn’t even sit upright. 

Next to him Patroclus huddled with his eyes closed, rocking back and forth as though in a dream. This was their third month underground, after having seen the surface for only a day, when the Achaean garrison was attacked. Time passed slowly here. 

With the Achaeans defeated, there was no one standing between the Dardanians and the Argives, who were still camped outside the city ready to capture it. As far as Hector knew, the communications remained diplomatic. There hadn’t been any attempts to infiltrate the city yet. 

General, he found himself thinking each day, like a prayer. If only the army would listen to the general. Idomeneus was their only hope, but it had been a month and they had heard nothing. 

“Hey, Patroclus,” he whispered, shifting over slightly, although his hands were bound behind his back. The movement caused another painful jolt in his leg, but he ignored it, settling to lean against the other man lightly. Patroclus cracked his eyes open at the touch.  
“You alright?” 

It was a stupid question, he knew. Being cramped up in the dark like this for a month could drive a person crazy. But they had to check in with each other, it was all they had. Patroclus opened his eyes fully and focused them on Hector. His vision had adjusted to the darkness enough to make this out, at least. 

“I was just … thinking.” Patroclus was quiet again, then he let out a short laugh. “About Sthenelus, of all people.” 

The silence stretched out between them. 

“And how I might never see him again.” 

“Patroclus -”

“A few months ago, I would have been perfectly happy with that. But now … it’s a very real possibility.” 

Hector sighed. “He is your brother. I don’t know how …” He paused. He didn’t know. He had three of his own, and none of them seemed anything like the relationship Patroclus had with Sthenelus. Before tonight, Hector would have guessed that the relationship between them had been non-existent. 

“That day I met your family … I envied you, a little.”

“Why?” He had an inkling, but he wanted Patroclus to keep talking. 

“You were close, you were warm with each other. I hadn’t ever experienced that before.” Patroclus sighed. “Sthenelus and I … it was different between us. We spent most of our lives pitched against each other. I would always have to work twice as hard, be twice as clever, in order for our father to even acknowledge what I was doing. All Sthenelus had to do was - be Sthenelus.” 

Hector frowned, looking over at Patroclus, trying to make out his features in the dark.  
“What would you say to him, if you could see him again?”

Patroclus shook his head. “I don’t think he would want to see me. I did steal his life, after all.” 

Hector scoffed. “ _I_ took away one of his marriage prospects. He is still the first Danaan to achieve the rank of knight commander. He might not have made the best decision at Lyrnessus, but he’ll recover.”

“You have no idea how much he wanted to marry into an ancient family, Hector. He was always a firm believer that it would give our family the roots we so desired. I took that choice away from him. I was selfish.” Patroclus eyed Hector sideways.  
“I wanted you for myself.” 

The words were spoken softly, barely a whisper between them. He could have pretended not to hear, could have blamed the darkness not to meet Patroclus’ eyes. 

“I wouldn’t have married him,” he admitted, slowly. He stared straight at Patroclus. “If you had said no, I would have gone to my brothers and asked them to give me more time. To choose someone else.” 

He felt Patroclus inch closer, straining at his bonds, until their fingers found each other, brushing just slightly. The tightness in his chest seemed to ease itself, until it was just a comfortable hum.  
“My father really would have been offended, then,” Patroclus snickered, laying his head back to control his own laughter. 

They allowed the stillness to settle between them again. 

“I have to believe I’ll see my brothers again,” Hector voiced, even though he hadn’t meant to, initially. “I won’t give myself another option.” 

He felt Patroclus nod. “Funny how different our lives were,” he muttered, sounding thoughtful. “Yet when I was around them, I kept getting reminded of how it was like when my brother and I were children. It wasn’t always … distant between us. We forget that, now.” 

“Tell me,” Hector offered. 

“When our father was away,” Patroclus started, sounding a little uneasy, as though this wasn’t a topic he’d meant to dredge up. “He was all I had. I must have been five, or six, and I would wake up, wanting our mother. But she was gone. So I’d climb into his bed. He acted like he hated it, but he never pushed me away.” 

“Nightmares?” Hector whispered. 

Patroclus sighed. “Seems so silly, now.” 

“It isn’t.” Hector leaned his head against Patroclus. “Helenus, you know … always had them. We were never really close as children. But our father would get so angry when he woke them up in the middle of the night. So he started sneaking into my room instead. I always wondered why he went to me.” 

“Because you were his big brother,” Patroclus replied. “Nothing can change that.” 

It made Hector go silent, thoughts of the brothers drifting through his head. They had to be worried sick. He had to find a way to go home. There was still hope, no matter how long the Dardanians intended to keep them here.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A clash of metal echoed through the tunnels, capturing their attention immediately. Retreating footsteps told them the Dardanian watchmen outside had run off, and in the distance, they could hear the faint noises of men’s cries. Patroclus sat up straighter and scooted over to the exit, craning his neck to peer at what was happening.  
“They’ve disappeared,” he whispered. “The guards.” 

They waited for a few moments, holding their breath, but the sounds had faded away. It was just the two of them, an unguarded exit, and the length of the tunnels before them. One quick look at each other determined their next course of action. 

“Be prepared for a beating if we’re caught,” Patroclus huffed, using Hector’s shoulder to haul himself up, struggling to stand. He turned around so Hector could get at the bonds around his wrists, pulling at the taut rope with his teeth. It took a long time, a back and forth of yanking and wriggling, but eventually the restraints loosened enough that Patroclus was able to remove them and work on the ones around his ankles. It was harder getting Hector on his feet. Even after Patroclus managed to untie him, he had to wait for cramp after cramp to pass before he could use the wall to slide himself upwards. 

They were panting by the time they had gotten completely free, eyes roaming to the exit at all times. Then Patroclus pulled Hector’s arm around his shoulders and they both made for the nearest tunnel, moving as quickly as they could. 

“Do you recognize this one?” Hector asked, but declined to question further when he could see Patroclus getting frustrated with the passageway. There was no way to identify which tunnel they were going through, not even when they had paid attention to their surroundings after being captured. The tunnels simply looked too similar in this part of the underground, and there was little light to see by. They just kept moving, blindly making turns, pausing every now and then to mark the turns in their heads in case they had to turn back. 

“Argos must have finally launched an attack,” Patroclus breathed, sounding far more reassured than he’d been in the past month. 

“Took them long enough,” Hector grumbled. 

It felt like they had walked for hours, Hector’s limp getting worse by the minute, but he refused to stop. They hadn’t heard anyone for a while, so Patroclus insisted on a break after each turn to make sure Hector didn’t collapse. 

They had begun to lose hope of ever finding an exit when the sound of footsteps carried through the tunnels, impossible to tell how far away they were. 

“Fuck,” Patroclus gasped, slamming them both flat against the wall of the tunnel, starting to move more silently. They crept along the wall, ears straining to hear the footsteps, when they rounded a corner and came face to face with one of the men from their unit. 

“You two!” the soldier exclaimed, even as he’d drawn back a knife to strike at them. Hector thought his name was Acastus, perhaps. “I didn’t know if you were alive!”

“Do you know about the other men?” Patroclus questioned. 

The soldier nodded frantically. “Five of us were held in the same room and we managed to escape. We overwhelmed the guards and took their weapons.” He held up the knife. “We should go. They’re after us again.” 

“Where are the others?” Hector asked. 

“We split up.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Patroclus frowned, visibly frustrated. “We have to find them. These tunnels are impossible and we’re not going to get out of here like this.” He gestured to their unprotected state. “Do you know which direction they went?” 

“I think that way,” the soldier scratched his head. He was very young, barely more than sixteen, at the least. “We were trying to distract the guards so two of us could run up to the gates.” 

“Come on,” Hector said. “We have to keep moving.” Patroclus and the soldier took both of his arms. They moved a lot faster with two people supporting him. 

The further they went, the more they could hear the sounds of fighting in the distance. They had moved past several different tunnels, trying to avoid encountering the Dardanians, but eventually they reached a dead end. 

“Turn back,” Patroclus insisted, wasting no time. They did, and managed to find another exit, only to see it had been blockaded as well. “Fucking Dardanians,” Patroclus hissed, going a little white with anger. “They know we’re running around in here. They’ve blocked all the exits.” 

“Let’s follow the sounds of the fighting, then,” Hector suggested. “The Dardanians will need to keep an exit open for themselves.” It wasn’t the best idea, considering they were unarmed save for a knife, but they eventually found the right way, judging from the light that had begun to enter the tunnel. It was daytime outside. 

“Alright,” Hector said, stopping both Patroclus and the soldier. “Real talk. Our chances for getting away are slim.” He looked back and forth between them, studying Patroclus’ stern expression and the soldier’s worried one. “They’ll anticipate us making for the gates and know to corner us before we get there.”

“That’s not where we’re going?” Patroclus guessed. 

“That’s not where we’re going,” Hector confirmed. “Argos has been camped out there for a month. If I had to take a guess, they’re simply biding their time. The Dardanians will starve out if they don’t reach an agreement soon. Whatever message General Idomeneus was able to relay, it’s not working. We have to _ask_ them for help.” 

“And if they don’t listen?” 

“We have to let them know their men are still here, waiting for them, and the Dardanians have no intentions of negotiating. It’s the last thing General Idomeneus needs to convince the others. I’m sure of it.” 

Patroclus eyed Hector for a second, the thoughts running in his head nearly visible. “The watchtower,” he whispered. 

“We sound the alarm,” Hector agreed. “They’ll know it’s us.”

It took several seconds for them all to be in agreement. They were relying on a lot, Hector knew. But the watchtower would be a smack in the face to the generals who had decided to lay still. They had been waiting for the negotiation of their return to come through, but it hadn’t worked. Now was the time to take action. 

They followed the light to the exit that would take them to the surface. The soldier readied his knife, him and Patroclus both flanking Hector and taking defensive positions. Two Dardanians outside the exit were caught unawares. Patroclus and the soldier leapt at them, promptly disarming them, then quickly grabbed Hector and took cover against the streets. This was starting to become familiar territory, trying to stay out of sight as an entire crowd of Dardanians was after them. 

“It’s not far now,” Hector said, catching a glimpse of the top of the tower, now deserted, which the Achaean sentries had used to keep an eye out for visitors and intruders alike. 

“Behind us,” Patroclus muttered, not looking back even as the footsteps drew nearer. They moved even faster, not bothering to take cover now, holding their breath as they rounded each street corner, until they were face to face with the watchtower looming above them. “Patroclus, go!” Hector yelled, bracing himself as the first Dardanian faces came into view. 

Patroclus cursed and ran into the building, all the way up the steps, even as the soldier started slashing with his knife at their oncoming pursuers. The odds were against them, but he had trained in the army and fought more wars than the Dardanians had seen. He could keep some of them from chasing after Patroclus, if it was the last thing he did. As the first Dardanian approached him, he grabbed hold of the man before he could strike, twisting his arm. He yanked off the man’s shield and moved to block the entrance to the watchtower. He could see the soldier getting overwhelmed to the far left, nearly dropping his knife. 

The Dardanians went against him with their assortment of weapons, but he held steady, blocking each strike with the shield. The thing was going to break under the pressure at such close quarters. They had seconds. He could feel the wood start to bend, giving way underneath the layers of leather covering. The Dardanians continued to hack at him with sword and knife, but he had moved into a position between the watchtower’s recesses where they could only approach one or two at a time. He couldn’t see the soldier anymore.

There was a loud snap as the wood of his shield finally cracked, the leather on top giving way. He let go of it before it could get caught on his arm, letting the Dardanians overcome him. Several pushed past him and ran up the stairs, but in that second, the sound of the watchtower’s bells rang out throughout the city, clear and strong, echoing over the city walls, where Argos’ armies were awaiting them.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Dardanians didn’t bother tying them up, this time, they had been beaten severely enough. Hector lay on his front, teeth gritted as his mouth filled with blood, face pressed against the cool earth. He could hear Patroclus’ breathing, ragged and unsteady, but there all the same. They were left there for a while, perhaps to be starved. 

“Hey,” Hector whispered, even though it hurt his mouth to do so. He reached out, wincing all the way, until his fingertips touched Patroclus’ knee. He must have had something to say, but the words escaped him, and all he wanted was to feel Patroclus there beside him. 

He must have blacked out for a few minutes, because the next time he opened his eyes, Patroclus was shaking him awake. 

“Hector.” His voice was small, afraid. 

“Hmph?” Hector turned his head slightly. “We did it.” He hoped it sounded reassuring. “We s… sou… the alarm.” His head was light, a slight ringing in his ears, so he couldn’t really hear his own voice. 

“ _Get up_. Please.” 

He frowned, blinking a little so Patroclus’ face was clearer to him. Patroclus turned his head, letting Hector follow his gaze, until it rested on the still body of a young soldier. The one who had gone with them to the watchtower. Hector managed to lift his head enough to study the scene. The boy was laying very still, facing away from Hector.  
“Dead?” As soon as he said it, he could tell it wasn’t the case. There was a low sound emanating from the soldier, a soft keening sound. Hector squinted, trying to take a closer look.  
“Oh.” 

His head swam, then, the bile threatening to rise from his gut. The soldier lay shielding his body away from them, which had been disemboweled, the guts spilling out on the ground in front of him. He was still alive. 

“A-Acastus?” Hector voiced, reluctantly. A deep pit of shame had made its place inside him. He wasn’t even sure if that was his name. The soldier moved his head a little, not stopping his weeping, as though he wasn’t even aware of it. 

Patroclus’ hand was trembling on Hector’s shoulder, he gripped him so hard his knuckles turned white. “We have to do something,” he said. 

There was nothing to be done. 

“We can’t just wait for him to die.”

“Acastus,” Hector said again, until the soldier’s eyes were on him. He kept his voice steady, gentle, to keep the boy’s attention, even as he struggled to find the words that would take a moment away from the suffering.

“Is it your first time in the army?” 

Acastus didn’t stop his keening, but nodded, slightly, his eyes still on Hector. 

“Where are you from?”

He could see the boy’s lips start to form the words, but unable to get them out. 

“The city?” A shake of the head.  
“The countryside?” A slow nod. 

Hector shifted closer to him, but white dots appeared in his vision as he did so. He clamped his mouth shut, breathing heavily, and stayed where he was. Patroclus was watching him, knowledge beginning to dawn in his eyes with each passing second. It passed between them, a silent pact of what was to happen. 

Acastus’ cries had started to come out in long, stuttering breaths, as though the pain had reached a crest he was unable to fathom. 

“I’m from Simoeis,” Hector offered. “Is your hometown nearby?” 

Another nod. 

“Arne, perhaps?” 

Acastus shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. Patroclus moved closer to him. 

“Hire,” Hector decided. “It must be Hire.” 

And finally, a nod, Acastus managing a small smile at the mention of his hometown. 

“Been there once. Beautiful farmlands. They grow lemon trees there.” 

Acastus’ nods became more enthusiastic, as though he wanted to speak, even as Patroclus moved next to him.

“Do you think of it often?” Hector pressed. “Especially in the spring. It must be most beautiful then.”

Acastus closed his eyes, picturing what Hector had said. As he did so, Patroclus slowly placed a shaking hand over the boy’s mouth and nose, listening for the sound of his breath. He fixed his eyes on Acastus, growing paler with each minute that the boy’s body struggled for air. He was shivering hard by the time Acastus finally went limp, eyes half-closed. It was over.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They stayed there, the silence unbreakable, the two of them and Acastus’ body. Hector tried to keep himself awake, no matter how dizzy he got, head swirling every time he moved too much. Patroclus had propped him up so he could sit. No matter how many times he tried, Patroclus would not speak, leaning his head against the wall, face white, eyes wide as the memory of what he had done flashed before him again and again. 

They must have been there for days when Patroclus turned to Hector, expression unreadable.  
“I killed him.”

“I know.” 

“I killed him.”

He frowned, looking over at Acastus’ body. The boy’s suffering had been ended. Who knew how long he would have taken to die? But those were not the words Patroclus was looking for. 

“Yes, you did.” 

Patroclus stared at him for a long moment. Then he burst into tears, bowing his head and covering his face with his hands. 

His shoulders heaved, body wracked with sobs. “He was just a boy.” The words were barely audible, but Hector could guess what he had said. 

“Come here.” 

Patroclus hesitated, but moved closer, burying his face in Hector’s shoulder. Warm tears started to soak the collar of his shirt. There was nothing to say.  
\------------------

Patroclus had fallen asleep, head cradled on Hector’s lap, when a Dardanian guard barged into their prison chamber and grabbed Hector by the arms. 

“Wha-”

“You’re coming with me.” 

“Where?!” 

“Your people have started attacking the walls.”

“Then let us go! There’s no point keeping us now!” 

The guard drew Hector closer, nearly spitting in his face. “ _You_ sounded the alarm.” 

He whistled, three more guards following his lead. “We know you are from an important family. _Hector son of Priam_.” 

He and the second guard started to drag Hector away, the other two holding Patroclus back, who had started to protest. 

“Wait! Where are we going?”

“Argos will think twice when we put your head up on the wall,” the guard sneered. 

They grabbed at his hair, silencing his objections. 

“Stop!” Patroclus yelled. He stopped struggling against the guards, but stood up straighter.  
“You’re not taking him anywhere.” The guard ignored him, but he pressed on, keeping his voice steady.  
“You think Argos is going to care about one dead aristocrat? You’ve refused to negotiate our return. You’ve shown them you aren’t willing to cooperate. Now you’re cut off from your resources and your defenses are futile.”

The guard began to hesitate, though he shot Patroclus a venomous look as he did so. 

“Argos will break down your walls regardless. Your people are going to die, and nothing will stop it.”

“You insult us! You Argive scum -”

“I wasn’t finished.” Patroclus glared back at the guard. “You are going to take me to the army. I will ask them to call off the attack, and give you time to start the negotiations. In return, you leave him alone.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I’ll wait here,” Patroclus said, still looking the guard in the eye, though Hector could see how his hands were clenched behind his back. A minute passed. And two. 

The guard stalled, glancing at his colleagues for assistance. The Dardanians were desperate. Patroclus had placed all his cards on that one fact, and if he failed, they would probably both be killed and put on display atop the city walls. But this was a people that had spent a year tirelessly building their tunnels, risking everything under Achaean authority. These were people who wanted to survive. 

“We’ll tell the leaders,” the guard muttered, tossing Hector back onto the ground and beckoning for his colleagues to follow. Patroclus remained silent as they left.  
\-----------

“You’re sure about this?” Hector asked, as they waited for a response. 

Patroclus nodded. “I have to be.” 

Hector sighed. “There’s still hope for a peaceful end. If we can do this without destroying the city … if we can spare lives, then … I suppose it’s for the best. You’ll let General Idomeneus know to keep negotiating?” 

Patroclus met his eyes for a moment. 

“I’ll make sure General Idomeneus knows what to do.” 

Hector took Patroclus’ hands in his, thumb tracing his palms, taking him in.  
“We might not see each other again for a while. However long the talks take. Will you send a letter to them for me?” He didn’t have to say their names for Patroclus to know who he was talking about. 

“You know I will.” 

“Tell them I’m alright. That I … can’t wait to see them again.” Hector paused, his eyes starting to smart.  
“To wait for me. I’ll come back. I will.” He looked straight at Patroclus as he said this, wanting the words to get through to him, too. They had been here, together, side by side, all this while. 

He was going to miss Patroclus. He really was. 

“They’ll get the message,” Patroclus said, eyes starting to water a little. He looked away promptly and wiped at his eyes. Then he let out a long, hard breath and placed a small kiss on the palm of Hector’s hand.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The guards came to take Patroclus away the next day. They left Hector alone, as promised. He watched Patroclus’ retreating figure, back straight, shoulders back, the proud, unflinching Danaan he was. A heavy weight settled itself in his core as he was faced with his empty prison chamber, the silence becoming deafening. 

He counted the minutes and the hours. He listened to the Dardanians’ hushed voices outside. They had removed Acastus’ body before Patroclus left, but the bloodstain was still there on the ground, and a slow shiver crawled down his spine whenever he looked at it. 

At one point he realized the guards were no longer there. Curious, he sat up and braced himself against the wall. He was still lightheaded, but the dizziness had formed into a lingering headache, so he was able to move without feeling he would keel over at any moment. They’d really done a number on him after the watchtower. 

The tunnels were completely deserted as he inched his way out, ready to return to his prison at the first sign of the guards. Unlike his unit members’ escape, there were no sounds in the passageways. Something had happened to draw the guards completely away. 

He started limping, one arm on the wall, heart beating fast at the thought of making it through with no one to intercept him this time. Down the tunnels he went, slowly taking his turns, stowing them away in his head if he made an error. It was close to an hour by the time he found the exit, bracing himself for being discovered and punished, yet again. 

But there was no one around. He frowned in confusion and pushed through, taking to the streets. And then he heard it.  
The shouts of the Dardanians, and a loud, echoing crack, like rocks being thrown onto the earth. He quickened his pace, passing the main square of temple ruins, the watchtower, and finally the entrance to the city. The sight before him froze him in place, even as the cacophony grew louder, an air of terror and panic all around. 

Dardanus’ walls were _gone_. 

At least, they would be, once the last of it crumbled away. All around him, screaming Dardanians fled, shoving and pushing at each other in their attempt to dodge the falling debris. Many had stayed to defend the walls, nearly the entire body of the revolt, but it was a fruitless attempt as Argos’ missiles were launched from their catapults, crashing into the city itself as the walls no longer served as a barrier. 

He thought it would keep on going, until the buildings were gone too, but the sound of a horn blared, and the missiles were stopped. The first formation of soldiers began their approach into the city, marching at a steady rhythm, the gates collapsed for their entrance. 

He took this all in with wide eyes.

Patroclus. _I’ll make sure General Idomeneus knows what to do_. Patroclus had promised the Dardanians he would call off the attacks, only to have the walls breached and laid to waste. How calm he had looked, even as he’d known what he would do. 

“Patroclus,” he breathed to himself, in anguish. He couldn’t stop thinking of the look in those eyes, staring straight at him as he’d anticipated all the time they would lose. Patroclus hadn’t had any intention of leaving him behind. 

He shook it off, before grabbing a passing Dardanian.  
“You have to surrender! Where are your leaders? Surrender now!” 

The Dardanian shrugged him away, falling to his knees and weeping helplessly. 

Hector took off, in search of the men who were leading the defenses. 

“Surrender!” he screamed, rounding them up, if only one would listen, then the rest could catch on. “Surrender or they’ll start killing all of you!” 

The troops had already started cutting down the first line of defenses, a cloud of chaos and confusion at the city’s entrance. The Dardanians towards the back were starting to flee, but it was no use. The madness of war was beginning to arise, and the troops would chase them down, slaughtering them one by one. Hector had seen it happen, time and time again, whenever the battle was taken away from the field, into the towns where civilians resided. This was war, where atrocities happened, men taken by the spirit of bloodshed. It had to be stopped before it had a chance to unfold. 

It continued on, until the Argives were in the city, stampeding through the square. But some of the Dardanians had realized what Hector was doing. He watched as they regrouped, swiftly retreating from the Argives, their leaders being beckoned forward to meet the troops in a position of surrender before they could continue their slaughter within the city proper. 

And so Dardanus was taken.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a major victory for Argos. So much that the troops stayed in Dardanus for several days, rejoicing, even as the walls lay in heaps around them. Several of the men in Hector’s unit had, in fact, survived. They recovered Acastus’ body and carried it away in a shroud, to be returned to his hometown of Hire. 

The celebrating only furthered his unease. They’d had a chance to win Dardanus without terrorizing the citizens. Without destroying something that had stood the test of time, that had carried the city’s history since the very beginning. There had been no need for … all of this. He frowned to himself, letting the medic tend to his injuries. 

Patroclus stood outside conversing with General Idomeneus. They hadn’t spoken much since reuniting at Dardanus’ fallen gates. Even when the army prepared for their return to Argos, they rode silently, stealing glances from the backs of their horses, but at a loss for words.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The crowd that received them seemed to spill out of the city, long lines of screaming people welcoming the troops’ return. He was not much in a festive mood, even as elated citizens threw flowers at his feet and chanted the names of the high lords. It was the victory their people had been waiting for. And he just wanted to go home. 

The army marched in their triumphal procession all the way to the top of the citadel, the crowds parting ways for them, like a parade during a major festival. Meanwhile, back in Dardanus, he could imagine the people hanging their heads in defeat, the remnants of destruction around them, like their collapsed temples and broken statues.   
\---

Life went on. He was glad to be home, even though some part of him remained restless, like it had never truly left Dardanus. He was quiet at dinners, Deiphobus and Polydorus shooting him puzzled looks when he didn’t speak much. He would spend a good amount of time at the dinner table just leaning back and taking it all in. 

The sound of their chatter, their bickering, Deiphobus’ jokes and Polydorus’ thoughtful observations. Warm laughter through the hallways. This was what had welcomed him, and he’d be damned if he ever forgot what it felt like. He never wanted to fight another battle again. Gods forbid. 

“So the council is enjoying a massive triumph,” Polydorus remarked, batting away Deiphobus’ attempts to steal his bread rolls. “It’s probably the first we’ve seen them achieve something great from working together.” 

“These are good times to be in Argos,” Deiphobus agreed. 

“We were really worried there for a while,” Polydorus admitted. “You were gone for three months.” 

“I noticed,” Hector drawled. 

“Yes, but you’re back now,” Deiphobus said, offering a smile. He shared a look with Polydorus. They both watched Hector a little nervously. 

“And thanks to Patroclus,” Polydorus reminded them, shooting a grin at him. 

Patroclus didn’t reply for a while, and Hector could only see him out of the corner of his eye.   
“I did nothing,” Patroclus said, eventually. “Merely an agreement.” 

“I wouldn’t call that nothing,” Deiphobus countered. 

Patroclus looked away, catching Hector’s gaze. He seemed as weary as Hector felt on the inside. They didn’t break eye contact, even when Deiphobus and Polydorus moved on to another topic.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d never recovered his confiscated armor from the Dardanians. Good riddance, he thought, staring at the empty trunk for a while. He kicked it shut with his good leg, feeling the smallest tinge of satisfaction at the loud sound it made. The armory was mostly empty, old weapons from past wars that had been in disuse for too long, Deiphobus’ collection of javelin spears from when he’d competed as a youth. The sight of the weapons made him sick. 

Soft footsteps came up behind him, and he cursed inwardly. He wanted to be alone. 

“You’re still angry with me.” 

“Angry isn’t the word,” Hector muttered, whirling round on Patroclus. The sight of him made his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, made the heat rise all the way to the roots of his scalp. 

Patroclus looked at him for a while, calm and expressionless as he usually was.   
“Then what is?” 

Hector sighed, raking through his hair as if it would take away the frustration that had planted itself deep.   
“You told them you were going to call off the attacks. That you were going to give them more time.” 

Patroclus scoffed. “Yes. So we could spend another fruitless three months _talking_. They were never going to give their city up, Hector. You know that.”   
He waited for a response, but Hector simply shook his head and grimaced.   
“Are you waiting for an explanation? I have none. I did what I had to do.” 

“You had their walls _run down_.” He moved up so they were facing each other, nearly nose to nose. He could hear Patroclus’ breathing, see the lines in his irises. These past few days they had been unsure how to approach the other, and he could feel the pent up energy bubbling up now.

“If that was what it took.” Patroclus’ gaze didn’t waver.

It burst out of him then, before he could control it. Days of this helpless emotion he couldn’t put a name to, but had been eating away at him.   
“ _Why_? Why would you let it happen? Why would you stand by and watch those people get mowed down as though they were _nothing_? They were people -”

“Because you were _still inside_!” Patroclus snapped, his calm exterior falling away in that one heated second. He blinked, looking surprised at himself. 

Something took hold of Hector then, something in him that burned. The way Patroclus was staring at him, he … no one had _ever_ looked at him that way before. Before he even realized he had moved, he had Patroclus up against the wall, their mouths pressed against each other, panting softly. He grabbed Patroclus’ overshirt and ripped it away, the sound of the tearing and Patroclus’ startled gasp nearly gratifying as he leaned down to suck on his neck. 

“Why do you do this to me? Why do you make me feel this way?” he growled. “Gods, you make me want to strangle someone. You make me want to -” 

Patroclus took his face and kissed him again, not caring about technique, or control.

He broke away for a second, catching his breath. “Do you know how I felt when I realized what you did? You _lied_ to their faces, Patroclus.” 

Patroclus said nothing for a moment, simply leaning back against the wall, hands gripping Hector tight.   
“I wasn’t -” he paused and took a breath. Then he let out a small sound, more a gasp of air than a laugh.   
“I’m not … some saint, Hector. I’m not a hero in those stories you talked about. I do awful things. I don’t hesitate to put people’s lives at risk. I’ve -” his voice went shaky, his lips going pale. “Killed people.”

Hector knew what he thought of in that moment, and frowned, unable to stop himself from tracing a hand over Patroclus’ face, wanting to offer comfort. But Patroclus turned his head, expression firm.

“Hard choices have to be made. I know you care about doing the right thing, Hector. But I will always put family above all else. I would watch the world burn for it.”   
He reached up and smoothed one of the stray curls that fell over Hector’s forehead.   
“This is who I am. This is who you married.”

Those words were a challenge, he knew, as he looked into Patroclus’ eyes. He had known who Patroclus was when he married him. It was up to no one else but him to accept it.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The house had flourished in the months he’d been away. He couldn’t remember the last time the courtyard felt this peaceful, its tiled floor redone and the gardens outside blooming brightly. He and Deiphobus sat together, as they’d always done, listening to the whirr of insect wings, watching the sky. 

“If you ask me, he wasn’t wrong about that, brother.” Deiphobus had a thoughtful look on his face, bringing attention to the features on him that most resembled Polydorus.   
“The decision to attack Dardanus when they were expecting a period of inactivity … it was underhanded, yes. But it did get the job done.” 

Hector rested his chin on his hand, resigned. “I know.” 

“Do you know what three months away from Argos does to the army? Perhaps it’s difficult to see things when you were trapped in there all that time, but … more waiting would not have done any good. I wish there was an easy answer, but … there isn’t.” 

Deiphobus patted Hector on the knee. “Is this why there have been all these long silences at dinner? I’m not blind, brother. You are usually quite enamored with Patroclus. But these days it’s like there’s this -” Deiphobus made a vertical gesture with his hands “-rift between you.” 

“I just don’t know what to feel. I want to shout at him, for what he did, but at the same time … I can’t stop thinking that he did it to bring me home.”

“He did it for you,” Deiphobus agreed. “It’s not a bad thing to want that.” 

“What’s this talk about me being enamored with him?”

Deiphobus laughed. “Come on, Hector. He’s charming, and intelligent, and - well, Sthenelus was dreamy…” Deiphobus gave a deep sigh. “But Patroclus is something else, isn’t he?”

“He’s something else,” Hector agreed.

“You’ve been married for nearly a year now. It’s alright to _like_ him.” 

“Liking him isn’t the problem.”

“Besides, aren’t you being a bit of a hypocrite? You sounded the alarm without knowing how Argos would react. You hoped they would send help, but how could you _really_ know what they would do? They started attacking the city because of your signal. It could have been a mistake on your part. Patroclus, he made a conscious decision. But the results were the same, weren't they?” 

It made Hector frown. 

“Just because you were in a tight spot doesn’t mean you didn’t make a choice, with real consequences. Patroclus did the same thing. He was just unapologetic about it.” 

A long silence, as Hector contemplated this. Deiphobus’ words weren’t untrue. He _had_ decided to sound the alarm. He’d known the Dardanians would catch them before they had a chance to escape, so he’d relied on instinct as a last resort. Argos had started their move because of his call for help. Perhaps they wouldn’t have destroyed Dardanus the same way. But how could he know that? Either way, he’d played a part in it. 

“I’m a fool,” he groaned, finally.

Deiphobus clapped a hand on his back. “You did what you had to do to survive. Patroclus did what he had to do to get you out of that mess. You had different priorities, but … things are never black and white, brother. Especially not in war.”   
Deiphobus pointed at himself. “Being a knight means I’m treated as no less than a hero. But the truth is, I’ve killed people for the high lord, men who probably had wives and children waiting for them at home. Does it mean I’m a villain? I don’t think that’s fair. I love my country, and I love my family. I don’t think that makes me a horrid person. Perhaps I’m somewhere in between. And you know what? I’m alright with that.” 

Hector cocked his head to the side and studied Deiphobus. “Since when did you get so wise?” 

Deiphobus chuckled, face brightening with that boyish grin Hector had loved all his life. 

“Wasn’t too long ago when you were trying to feed our tortoise _meat_.” 

“Poor Ambrosius,” Deiphobus sighed.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After sundown he went back to his room to find the windows open, letting in the cool evening breeze. He found Patroclus out in the garden, leaning against a pillar, deep in thought. It brought him back to that night in the city hall, the two of them in a quiet moment. 

Sometimes those moments were good for being alone, for finding some respite from everything else, all the demands and worries. Other times … 

He walked up to Patroclus, knowing the other man could hear him, though he didn’t turn around. He stopped when Patroclus was right in front of him, and leaned his head on his shoulder. It was like letting out a breath he had been holding for a long time, warm skin beneath his cheek. 

A moment later, he felt Patroclus’ hand rest against his side.   
“Do you forgive me?” Patroclus asked, quietly, as though he’d been thinking whether to voice it or not. It made Hector’s heart constrict, that Patroclus had stood his ground, as he always did, but listened to him anyway. 

“There’s nothing to be forgiven,” he breathed. “If anything, I - I played more of a part in it. I thought I knew what the right thing was, but I don’t, Patroclus. I don’t know anything at all.” 

“You know yourself,” Patroclus replied, and turned around, finally, so they could look at each other. His face was serious but his eyes shone, gaze more gentle than Hector had expected.  
“Your heart was in the right place.”

“But it’s no use at all. Intentions don’t count for anything. It’s about the results.” 

“It does to me,” Patroclus smiled. 

A burst of warmth leapt through his chest, as he studied Patroclus’ features under the darkening sky. There was no challenge there, this time. Just a pact, like their lives together were made up of. There was at least one person out there who would never try to change him, never want something more than what he was. And in return, he could only offer the same.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deiphobus had been right that these were good times to be in Argos. After the major victory at Dardanus, the Regime was experiencing a period of stability for the first time in several years. There had always been push and sway towards one council member more than the others, but thanks to each high lord’s participation at Dardanus, the scales had been balanced. 

Hector was more surprised than anything that they didn’t receive a running commentary from Polydorus throughout dinner, all the little bits of news he’d picked up from his work at the citadel. 

“There’s talk that the Head Secretary will be retiring soon,” Hector commented one night. 

This usually caught Polydorus’ attention immediately, but his brother simply nodded distractedly, not really listening. “Hmm.” 

Hector shared a look with Deiphobus, but shrugged and decided to leave it alone. If Polydorus had something to share, he would have done it by now.   
\---

Polydorus had been leaving the house at strange times during the day, now that he thought of it. He and Deiphobus were in the courtyard, playing a game of draughts, when their younger brother came out the back door, slinking past them without a word. 

“Where are you going?” Deiphobus asked. 

“Me?” Polydorus drew back, looking innocent. It only made Deiphobus frown at him more. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be talking with the mosaicist today? The second floor won’t redo itself, you know,” Deiphobus added. 

Polydorus crossed his arms, huffing in exasperation. “Why is it always me who has to get work done in this house? I don’t judge you when you go to the citadel and wave your sword around -”

“I don’t _wave it around_ ,” Deiphobus cut in. “Now, where are you off to?” 

“Nowhere,” Polydorus replied. “Just paying a visit, that’s all.” 

“Paying a visit? To who, exactly?” 

Polydorus shrugged. “I have a lover.” 

Deiphobus sat up straighter. “What? No you don’t!” 

“I could have lovers.” 

“Oh, so now there’s more than one?”

“That’s still more than you’ll ever have, Deiphobus, because your life is sad. Don’t wait up for me,” Polydorus called, as he retreated through the gate. 

Deiphobus made an irritated sound. “He’s never been interested in romance.”

“I don’t think he was being serious, Dei.” 

“Well then, where could he be going?” 

Hector shrugged. Polydorus was allowed some secrecy of his own. If their brother didn’t want to tell them, then he didn’t have to. Glancing at Deiphobus though, he didn’t think he was going to leave the matter hanging.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was one of those mornings where he’d accidentally slept in. Glancing out the window, dark rain clouds had filled the sky, so there had been no sunlight to wake him up. He felt the sheets being dragged across his skin as Patroclus rolled over, and smiled when a leg was thrown over him, a warm chest pressed against his side. 

“You’re usually gone by now,” Patroclus sighed, and kissed his neck, bringing it down to his chest and shoulder. He made a low hum in acknowledgment, the last traces of sleep taking its time to melt away. Patroclus’ thigh was rubbing against his cock, and he grabbed it and held it there, hearing a soft laugh in his ear that made him harden painfully. 

He had nothing against sex in a tent, and said so. But their quick romps on that cramped bedroll, nothing but thin fabric separating them from the outside, were nothing compared to this, he thought. And they’d had to be mindful of his injury, too, limiting the amount of movements they could make. It wasn’t that his leg was completely healed, and he still walked with a slight limp. But he was well on his way to how he’d been before.

There was proof of that when Patroclus shifted on top of him, and he no longer felt any discomfort, running his hands over that smooth, naked skin. They spent a few moments just kissing and rocking into each other, because they had the time. He’d missed it. He’d missed how Patroclus propped himself up just to look at him, gaze roaming his body like he didn’t want to miss a single detail. 

“What are you looking at?” he teased, ignoring the tingling of heat in his face, down his neck. 

A sly look crossed Patroclus’ face, eyes brightening in mischief. “What? I can’t look at my own husband? Perhaps you want to be kissed instead.” He slid down Hector’s body, pressing his mouth against the skin of his chest, over his ribs and down to the groove of his hip.

Hector let out a breath of satisfaction, arching his back a little. Patroclus didn’t stop kissing him, moving even further down and slowly mouthing at the tip of his cock. 

Gods, he would never tire of the sight, he thought, as he watched Patroclus take him into his mouth with one smooth sweep, lips rounding as they slid up and down his length. With a groan, he weaved his fingers through Patroclus’ hair, wanting to grab hold of something. 

He pulled him off as the sting of pleasure began to reach its peak, sitting up and collecting himself for a moment. He grabbed Patroclus’ hips and moved him to the edge of the bed, moving over him until those slender legs were balanced on his shoulders. He made quick work of preparing him, a little roughly perhaps, mouths locked against each other, unwilling to part. 

He was really glad they’d made up, he thought, even as he quickened his thrusts, hands stroking along Patroclus’ legs. Every time he rocked inwards, Patroclus’ face would contort, and he’d bend down to hear those sounds, feel them against his lips. The air was heavy, sticking to his skin. Beads of sweat began to gather on his forehead. All he heard was the sound of his own harsh breathing, intermingling with Patroclus’ soft gasps, filling the room.

There was no beating this, Patroclus naked and writhing in their bed, fingers entwined around his neck, holding him close.   
\---

Afterwards they lay still, completely sated, and he didn’t want to move. The crook of Patroclus’ neck was just right, he thought, face buried in it, and he could feel Patroclus’ fingers tracing patterns on his back, the light movements making him shiver. 

“Are you going to stay there all day, love?” Patroclus asked, voice laced with amusement. 

“Mm.”

“As much as I like you there, it’s getting a bit hard to breathe.”

He sighed, reluctantly shifting away, when a loud crash outside made them both freeze. Seconds later, someone could be heard yelling. 

“Don’t care,” Hector grumbled, and kept his eyes closed. 

“Go see what it is,” Patroclus insisted. 

Hector rubbed at his eyes and groaned, cursing whoever it was who had interrupted the beginning of a lazy morning. With extreme reluctance, he rolled off the bed and scrambled around for his clothes.  
\-------

A large chunk of the roof had fallen off, and he could see why. He squinted up at Deiphobus, who was balanced on the ledge, craning his neck to look at whatever it was that could be seen from up high. 

“Sometimes you have to accept that you can’t fit up there anymore,” Hector suggested, wincing as Deiphobus stumbled a little at being caught off guard. 

“I fell,” his brother admitted. “You must have heard me yelling.” 

“Why do you feel the need to abuse our roof? And what exactly are you doing, anyway?”

“Spying on Polydorus.” 

Hector sighed and turned around. “Right, I’m going back to bed.” 

“Wait!” Deiphobus scrambled down the roof and caught up to him.   
“He’s acting really _strange_ , Hector. Yesterday I saw him take money out of the jar in the kitchen. We use that for the good wine.” 

“Wine is an acceptable gift for someone you’re courting.” 

Deiphobus glowered. “We both know he isn’t courting anyone. It’s _Polydorus_ , for crying out loud.” 

“Well, what do you want me to do?” 

“Come with me.” 

Hector crossed his arms, looking Deiphobus up and down. “You want to follow him.” 

“I want to know what he’s up to!”

“And if he doesn’t appreciate us snooping around in his business?” 

“The Polydorus I know can’t keep his mouth shut about whatever he’s scheming. Why all this secrecy? What doesn’t he want us to know?” 

It took some convincing, but eventually Hector realized someone would have to make sure Deiphobus didn’t do anything stupid. He had to admit, he _was_ curious about what Polydorus could possibly keep from them, but there had to be a reason. He was going to make sure Deiphobus didn’t step out of line, if they did manage to find out what their brother was up to.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Deiphobus insisted there was a pattern to Polydorus’ coming and going. They waited until after dinner, when the house was quieter. All the servants had left, and Patroclus had retired to the study, leaving them free to go after Polydorus without attracting attention. 

“I still think we should leave it,” Hector grumbled, after the third turn they made into a dark street. Polydorus was far stealthier than he’d given him credit for. It was easy to lose him even with the street lamps flickering brightly, and few people roaming the city at night. They lost him a few times, but Deiphobus always picked up the trail again. 

“This is … a longer trip than I expected,” Deiphobus admitted, when they had gone past the wealthier areas of central Argos. “I don’t even recognize where we are now.” 

They had passed the temple complex, and the streets were getting uneven, a part of the city that was less well-maintained than the rest. Looking closer, there were little flats on either side of them, the buildings cramped together. This was an unfamiliar neighborhood. It had to be where the commoners lived. Polydorus did not pause, not missing a step as though he had been here many times. 

“Perhaps he’s seeing a commoner,” Hector suggested. It was a valid explanation for why their brother wouldn’t want to tell them about it. “We should probably turn back now before we invade his privacy even further.” 

Deiphobus shook his head, frowning in consternation, but kept on. “It’s not like Polydorus to keep secrets. I want to know what’s going on.” 

They continued, until they were past the flats and in an entirely different neighborhood, with low houses and wider streets. They must have been deep in the edges of the city now. They wouldn’t find another aristocrat in these parts. 

“That house,” Deiphobus pointed out. “I think he went in there.” 

“Alright, we’ve seen enough. I am not going to spy on someone in their home.” Hector placed a hand on Deiphobus’ arm, trying to lead him away, but his brother shook it off and ran towards the house, pounding on the door loud enough to wake the whole street up. 

“Dei!” Hector yelled, more in shock than anything. He hurried to intercept Deiphobus. “Stop this!” 

“Open up!” Deiphobus yelled, even as Hector moved to shush him. They struggled, Deiphobus trying to knock on the door, and Hector holding him back. A second later, the door swung open and Polydorus stood in the doorway. His face paled when he saw them, but he crossed his arms and held the door open only by an inch. 

“What are you doing here?!” 

“We followed you,” Deiphobus replied, equally upset. 

“You followed me?!” Polydorus was fuming, Hector could see, his pale cheeks turning red. 

“We’re sorry,” Hector replied. “We didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No, I want to know what’s going on! What are you keeping from us?” Deiphobus cut in. 

“It’s none of your business!” Polydorus paused, then suddenly looked guilty. “Well, actually it is, but I can’t tell you, alright?” He looked back and forth between them. “I … you shouldn’t have followed me! Io damn you, Dei. Don’t you trust me at all?” 

“You have to admit, you were looking pretty suspicious. I just couldn’t figure out why you would hide something from me. We tell each other everything!” 

“This is different,” Polydorus replied, and the tone of his voice made them all stop short.   
“I’m doing someone a favor. And I _will_ tell you all about it, but only because it can’t be kept secret forever. But right now, I want you to turn back and go home. You shouldn’t have spied on me like this.” 

“Polydorus -” Deiphobus started, but their brother threw him a hard look. 

“ _Go home_. I’ll speak to you both when I’m done here.” 

“Come on,” Hector said, and took Deiphobus by the arm. He’d expected Polydorus to be angry, yes, but the night had not turned out like he’d imagined.   
\------------------------------------------------

They waited. It was near midnight, and still they sat around the table, Deiphobus fidgeting impatiently. Whatever Polydorus was doing, it was taking him a long time. 

Hector couldn’t stop himself from yawning, eyelids becoming heavier as the minutes passed. He was beginning to grow worried. 

Eventually, they heard the front door open and shut softly, footsteps approaching until Polydorus appeared and took his seat at the table. He eyed them both, looking more drained than anything. He sat silently for a while, weighing his words, then placed his hands on the table and gave a long sigh. 

“That house you saw me in,” he started. He ran a hand over his face. “Belongs to a young woman named Chryseis. She was a priestess of Io, before being thrown out of the temple.”

“What does this have to do with anythi -” Deiphobus cut in, but Hector placed a hand on his arm to silence him. 

“They cast her out because she was pregnant. When you were at Dardanus -” Polydorus glanced at Hector. “She found me, somehow. I had no idea how she did it. But she was hysterical.”

A growing suspicion was pooling itself in Hector’s belly. A former priestess of Io, who had tracked them down.   
“Pregnant, you say?” he questioned. 

Polydorus’ expression became even more strained, a small vein visible on his forehead. “She’s carrying Helenus’ child, Hector,” he whispered. 

The room grew still in its silence, the shadows masking any small movement. 

Helenus. 

“He is a Son of Tros,” Deiphobus managed, voice weak. “It’s forbidden.” 

The anguish was clear on his face. “What is going to happen?” he asked, sounding young, afraid. 

“I don’t know,” Polydorus replied. “But no one can ever find out.” 

Hector was lost in his own thoughts, thinking back to Helenus’ last days in the house. The moments flashed by, and he couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in his chest as each piece rearranged itself, becoming clearer to him. Helenus’ words. His argument with Polydorus that had led to him leaving. How afraid he’d been of the priesthood. It had never been about Hector’s marriage to a Danaan. It had never been about Polydorus’ meddling in the war. He’d been afraid of something else. Something that could bring their whole family to ruin. 

“Oh, Helenus,” he whispered, closing his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

The Temple of Tros stood in the heart of Argos’ religious center, a magnificent building of multi-colored marble, immediately distinguishable from the rest. This was where Helenus spent his days, though in truth, Hector hadn’t been here since he was a boy. He’d forgotten how peaceful the halls were when it wasn’t a busy day. The external colonnades towered above him, seeming to go on forever as he made his way past the portico. 

On the ceiling were carvings of the priest-king’s many travels, so intricate and numerous that it would have been impossible to see all of them, even in a day. A sense of familiarity came over him, how it had been at the Temple in Ilium. How there had been throngs of people waiting to pay homage to the final resting place of Danaos and Io, and he’d been lost in the sea of pilgrims, wishing more than anything he was someplace else. 

These kinds of places did things to a person. Though he wasn’t particularly devout, something about being in a sacred house made him feel a certain insignificance. He wondered if Helenus felt like that on most days, being far closer to the gods than a regular person was. 

Although the Sons of Tros were responsible for carrying out various duties at the Temple, they didn’t tend to show themselves much. Most of them stayed in the House of Tros, a smaller building connected to the main Temple, where supplicants could seek them out beyond the usual offerings and prayers. 

He entered the cella, which housed Tros’ altar, surrounded with tiny statues, flowers, and food items that people had brought in as offerings. There were several people bent in quiet prayer, and Hector stood back watching them for a while, trying to gather his thoughts and what he would say. 

“Can I help you?” 

He started, turning around to see an older priest in modest robes.   
“I was just - I’m looking for my brother. Helenus?” 

“Ah, yes.” The priest smiled, beckoning Hector to follow him to the connecting building.   
“You must be Hector. Helenus speaks of you quite often.” 

Surprised to hear this, Hector scanned the older man’s face, but he was completely sincere. 

“I can’t say I’ve ever seen you at Temple,” the priest continued. 

“I don’t come here much,” Hector admitted. 

The priest nodded. “Well, you are always welcome in the House of Tros. The chosen one does not turn others away.” It was a name given to Tros, for being appointed by Danaos and Io themselves to spread the sacred word. 

They entered the smaller building, its hallways narrower and darker, flaming sconces on the walls to light the way. It was dead quiet, not even the sounds of other priests or visitors. Here there was no embellishment, no images of Tros or the gods, simply plain stone pillars and floors. Hector had to duck to enter each room, the doorways were built so low. 

“Helenus should be tending to the hearth. I will leave you to speak to him in private.” The priest gave a short bow and walked away, leaving Hector in an empty corridor that led to a courtyard. 

He saw his brother immediately, standing alone in the middle of the room, stoking the flames with a long stick.   
“Helenus.” 

His brother looked up, astonishment crossing his features at seeing Hector in the doorway.   
“What are you doing here?” 

They moved towards each other, apprehensive at first, then Hector pulled Helenus into a tight hug. He moved back to look his brother up and down, noting that he seemed paler, thinner, but otherwise the same. There was a distant look in his eyes, but it had always been there. He realized that now. Helenus had always looked that way, but he’d never truly understood. Perhaps things could be different, now. He hugged him again, glad that Helenus didn’t pull away. 

“I heard about what happened,” Helenus started, looking slightly guilty for a moment. “That you were gone for a while. I should have come over, to say goodbye, before you left.”

“Forget about it,” Hector shook his head. 

“What kind of brother am I?” Helenus smiled sadly. “I left the house and I didn’t even come back to see you off. You must be so angry with me.” 

“I’m not. Don’t say such things, Helenus. You know you’re always welcome home whenever you want to come back.” 

“I was afraid -” Helenus raked a hand through his hair. Gods, they looked so alike, sometimes. That face - he’d seen it enough times in the mirror, in his darkest hours, the moments of loneliness he’d once felt that wouldn’t go away. It was different now. But he recognized it all the same, and it took him back, an emptiness in his heart that lingered. If he could take all of Helenus’ pain away, he would.   
“- I was afraid you’d be disappointed in me. I didn’t want to see you,” Helenus admitted, and covered his face. 

“You? Disappointed in you? Never,” Hector replied, softly. He put an arm around Helenus and walked him over to a bench, where they could sit and talk.   
“Helenus. I know things have been different, ever since you became a full-fledged Son of Tros. It couldn’t have been easy. We spent so much time away from each other. There were many things left unsaid. Too many words let go, when we could have shared them instead.” 

Helenus was silent, watching Hector thoughtfully. Then he gave a quiet laugh, bending his head to look at the floor. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to tell you. How much I wish ...” he paused and shook his head. “But I can’t, Hector.” 

“Why not?”

Helenus pursed his lips and didn’t answer. 

“What is it you wish you could tell me?” He caught Helenus’ eye, gazing straight at him. 

“Hector …” 

“The truth, Helenus.” He thought he heard Helenus’ breath quicken, a slow panic entering his eyes. 

“How much do you know?” Helenus exhaled, hands clenched at his sides. 

“I want to hear it from you.” 

Helenus bent over, supporting his head in his hands. “I don’t see her anymore. I swear.” He kept his voice low, even though the room was empty. “It’s done. It will _never_ happen again.”

Hector frowned, looking at his brother. He couldn’t help thinking of the last time they’d spoken. Helenus had never approved of his marriage to Patroclus, but for different reasons than he’d ever expected. _I wish you had chosen differently_. His brother had never had a choice. 

“You love her.” 

He watched as Helenus’ face fell, as he tried to hide it.   
“It doesn’t matter.”

“She wants to see you.” 

Helenus shook his head, looking pained. “No, no. It can’t happen.”

Hector bit his lip. “What about the child?” 

Helenus turned to him slowly, a deep frown making its way to his face. “What?” 

Nothing but silence stretched out between them. Helenus had turned very white. 

Gods. The situation was more complicated than Hector had imagined. 

“That’s … that’s not true.” 

“It is true.”

Helenus stood up suddenly, pacing the room, a sweat starting to collect on his brow.   
“They’ll find out about it,” he whispered. “The priesthood. They will find out, and I will be punished.”

Neither of them wanted to approach the subject. The punishment for a Son of Tros breaking his vow was well-known throughout Argos. 

“Come home with me. We will discuss what to do.” 

“I - Hector, I -” He had never seen Helenus look more helpless. 

“Hey,” he said, placing his hands on Helenus’ shoulders, hoping the touch would ground him. “Look at me. I will not let anything happen to you, understand? We are going home, and we will decide what to do. Together. Do you hear me, brother?” 

Helenus started to object, but he kept his grip on him, and slowly, his brother started to nod.   
“Alright. Alright, I’ll go with you.”   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was quiet in the courtyard, the air wracked with a tension that had arisen ever since Polydorus brought the news of their youngest brother’s secret. The night before, Hector had returned with Helenus in tow. What proceeded was probably the longest night of his life. 

“What were you thinking?” Deiphobus yelled, more furious than Hector had ever seen him. Even Polydorus had looked appalled, glancing nervously at their brother. 

“Clearly I wasn’t,” Helenus snapped back, defenses already up. 

“You _know_ the punishment for breaking your vow.” However much rage was in his tone, there was the undercurrent of fear. It was only what they all felt, but were too afraid to voice. 

Helenus had looked like he’d been slapped, face turning red as he and Deiphobus stood eye to eye.   
“You don’t have to remind me.”

“After everything we’ve worked for! You - you -” Deiphobus struggled for words, seeming too livid to talk. 

“Dei,” Polydorus cut in, softly, trying to get between them. 

“No! I want to hear it from Helenus!”

“This isn’t helping,” Polydorus objected. 

Helenus turned on him then, his eyes burning with a dark intensity. “ _You_ went to see her,” he seethed. “And you said nothing.” 

Polydorus’ face fell. 

“I don’t ever want you seeing her again,” Helenus continued. “You just keep making things worse, Polydorus.” 

“I never meant to -” 

“Enough!” Hector raised a hand to quiet them, a headache already pounding in his temples. “I don’t want to hear it. There has been enough blame to last us a lifetime. Now we will sit down and talk like a family, because Helenus’ life depends on it.”

They’d complied, but he noticed how much discord was among them. Helenus shifted away from Polydorus, refusing to look at him, while Deiphobus glared at them both. This was threatening to tear them apart, and he had to fix it.  
\-------------------------------

Polydorus sat by himself now, deep in thought, long after Helenus had left. Hector couldn’t help thinking of everything he had missed, how Polydorus had respected Helenus’ privacy and said nothing all the months he had been gone. It was no small feat, and made Hector look at him in a new light. 

“You visit her often?” Deiphobus murmured, more expressionless than he’d ever been. He looked as though he hadn’t slept much. None of them had. 

Polydorus seemed to contemplate answering, and sighed. “Ever since she came to see me. She hadn’t seen a physician once, you know. I found one who would see her at such short notice. And I bring her things, sometimes. She doesn’t have anyone. The priestesshood was all she had.” Polydorus paused, scratching his forehead.   
“And we talk. We talk a lot.”

“What could you possibly talk about? She’s a stranger,” Deiphobus whispered. 

Polydorus frowned at him. “I thought I could get to know Helenus a little better, through her. And I have. She’s a sweet girl, Dei. She really cares about him.” 

Deiphobus schooled his expression, but couldn’t mask how upset he really was. He had never been able to. “You could have said something to me.” 

They both fell silent, leaving the situation no more resolved than it had been.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------

As the days passed, Polydorus remained the only one who went to see Chryseis. It was important that they did not attract unwanted attention from the Sons of Tros. While Chryseis’ name had been struck off the registers at the Temple of Io, it was still completely possible to trace her back to Helenus. Both had started serving their respective temples around the same time, and would have seen each other in the temple complex. 

Polydorus was certain that no one else knew about Chryseis. He’d chosen a physician who did not ask for personal details, and there wasn’t anyone from the Sons of Tros who knew of her whereabouts. If they continued to be careful, they could make sure Helenus’ actions were never discovered.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He sat in his study, musing over the past few weeks. It was a good thing their father wasn’t alive to see this. He might have turned Helenus in himself, out of pride, and the thought made Hector’s blood boil. His brother was so _young_. And he’d had no one, those years without his family. He’d never really thought of what it was like as a member of the priesthood. 

The Sons of Tros were placed on a pedestal, looked up to by all of Argos. They were the guardians of the city, the keepers of Tros’ sacred word. They were always treated with reverence. And when they slipped, Argos was quick to turn its back on them, the penalty far more brutal than could be imagined. He shuddered to think of it. 

He heard the door open, looked up to see Patroclus. Their eyes met in a silent greeting. All at once he felt it catch up to him, the constant worrying, no matter how much he had to be still, to keep his brothers in check, to ensure nothing went wrong. 

“Not coming to bed?” Patroclus hovered over him, reaching out a hand to smooth his hair back. He closed his eyes at the touch, letting it soothe him. He’d been tightlipped about the recent events, but he could tell Patroclus was completely aware of what was going on, nonetheless. 

“I’m just thinking.” 

“You think too much,” Patroclus replied, motioning for Hector to lean back so he could slide onto his lap. It made Hector sigh, bringing his arms around Patroclus to hold him close. His only anchor, in this storm that kept threatening to brew. If he could just forget everything, for one moment. He leaned his head against Patroclus, taking a deep breath. 

“And you haven’t been sleeping.” 

“How can I? There’s just so much to do. What’s going to happen when she gives birth?”

“One thing at a time,” Patroclus chided. 

“You must think it’s insanity. How we’re all so riled up because our brother slept with someone.” 

Patroclus pursed his lips. “I’d heard it was against the rules.” 

“Do you know what happens when that rule is broken?” 

They looked at each other now, and he allowed Patroclus to see it. The deep fear that had taken ahold of him, that now lingered in their household. A fear he hadn’t ever thought to know. 

“What?” Patroclus whispered, holding his gaze, thumb brushing against his cheek. 

If there was one person who could make him brave enough to say it, it was Patroclus. 

“It hasn’t happened for a long time. First, the Son of Tros is stripped of his title. Then he is taken outside the city, blindfolded, his family not allowed to accompany him. They place him into the earth, where there is a chamber waiting just for him. And he is buried there. Alive.” 

The minutes passed, and he could hear the drum of his own heartbeat, steady and strong. Patroclus never looked away from him. 

“That isn’t going to happen.” 

He could feel his eyes start to smart. “And if it does?”

“No.” Patroclus leaned closer to him, so their noses were almost touching. 

“If you had ever planned to leave me, I think now would be a good time.” 

Patroclus huffed. “Now you’re just being absurd.” 

“I’m serious.” He took the other man’s wrist, turned it over and kissed it. “If we fail, our family name will be erased from the records. A Son of Tros’ broken vow affects everyone he is affiliated with. It has happened before. It will happen again.” 

Patroclus gazed at him for a long time, eyes large and bright. “Then we won’t fail.” 

Hector nodded, looking at the ground. He hadn’t expected anything less from Patroclus. But a small part of him - a small part of him had wondered. 

He blinked in surprise when Patroclus leaned forward and kissed him on the nose.   
“I think you’ve done enough brooding for the day. Now, tell me that doesn’t make you feel better.” He was kissed again, on that same spot, until he couldn’t help the small smile that had started to make its way onto his face. 

Patroclus laughed, the sound warm and light, and he found himself joining in, the disquiet melting away for the first time in a while.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the month passed, they saw less and less of Helenus. Things were going extremely well at the estate, although Menoetius was not pleased that construction of the fortress had been delayed in favor of the battle at Dardanus. He came to visit again, intending to discuss plans of resuming construction. Patroclus was always tense when his father arrived, and Hector couldn’t tell if it was nerves or dislike for the older man, or a combination of both. 

“I would like to speak with my son alone,” Menoetius announced, steely gaze eyeing Patroclus like a hawk, after they had concluded their discussion. Hector nodded, getting up to leave, but a small touch on his wrist made him pause. 

Patroclus was looking up at him silently. 

“I’ll be right outside,” he murmured, under his breath, giving a small smile for reassurance. Patroclus nodded in resignation, and he went to wait outside the room. He couldn’t help feeling like he was eavesdropping, even when the silence continued. 

“I would have thought you’d be satisfied, father,” Patroclus’ voice carried out, stiff and drained. 

“With the plans? Oh, nothing about it displeases me.” 

“Then, what? What do you wish to speak to me about?” It almost sounded rude, coming from Patroclus. 

“I simply wish to ensure you don’t plan on going off to fight any more battles.”

He heard a short laugh. “How long were you waiting to spring that on me, father? So it was delayed for a few months. That isn’t a major loss.” 

“You are _still_ making decisions like an amateur. Was it you who was summoned to the army? No! And you know how I know that? Because they do not summon Danaans to the army. We volunteer.” 

“You had absolutely no problem with my accompanying Sthenelus to Lyrnessus.” 

“That was different. The holy war had only just been announced. It would have been useful to see what was going on, to gather information. Now it is in full effect. You have other matters that require your attention.”

“If I hadn’t been there, Hec-”

“Your husband has taken up his shield for the state, there is no need for you to do the same! Your brother has already -” Menoetius paused. It was the first time Hector had heard the older man lose his temper, the frustration evident in his voice. 

“What? What’s this about Sthenelus?” Patroclus sounded curious now.

“He has already joined Menelaus’ army. He will be deployed for the remainder of the war.” 

There was a silence as Patroclus contemplated this.  
“Wasn’t it what he wanted?” he finally asked, although his voice wavered. 

“I already have one son risking his life for the Argives. I don’t need another -” Menoetius cut himself off, and the room was quiet as they faced each other. Hector wondered what Patroclus looked like in that moment, could picture the thoughts racing through his head.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------

He was walking Menoetius out the door when it crossed his mind, and he hesitated to voice it. He glanced over at the older man, stern and straight to the point, the father Patroclus had never gotten along with.

“You _could_ just tell him that you care for him, you know,” he muttered, staring straight ahead. He expected an immediate rebuke, but Menoetius simply gave him a knowing look. 

“Things aren’t so simple, Hector. Sometimes we let years go by, we fall into patterns … and before we know it, it’s too late.” 

“Not yet,” Hector insisted, opening Menoetius’ carriage door for him. 

“Not yet.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was no escaping the feeling of being on the very edge. Even when their days passed uneventfully, it lingered in the backs of their minds. Every time Polydorus left the house, it would be a new fear, a sense of dread that somehow the priesthood would catch wind of it and follow him, or stop him in the streets. 

It was a ridiculous notion, Hector knew. The Sons of Tros were not in the habit of roaming the streets of Argos in search of family members. Especially not in the part of the city where Chryseis resided. But he couldn’t help the visions - those silent, white figures emerging from the streets. Surrounding Polydorus. And then they dragged him away, screaming, deep underground, where no one would ever find him.

It made him wake in a cold sweat, in the middle of the night. This wasn’t Dardanus, he kept reminding himself. There were no civilians waiting behind the corners. It was not a battle. He would steady his breathing, checking to make sure he hadn’t woken Patroclus up. Then he would curl up against him, hoping Patroclus’ warmth would soothe him to sleep, but it never did. He would stay awake the rest of the night, chasing away those visions.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Polydorus returned to the house one morning in a hired carriage. 

“She’s in there,” he muttered, looking exhausted. “Will you please help me dismiss the servants?” 

“What’s happened?” Hector asked, although he had his suspicions. There was only one reason Polydorus would ever bring Chryseis to the house. 

“I didn’t think it would be so soon,” Polydorus admitted. “She’s been in labor the entire night. I couldn’t find a midwife who would offer services in that neighborhood.” 

They still hadn’t discussed what was to happen when she had the child. It would be much harder to keep it a secret then. He went about sending all of the servants home, until the house was empty and quiet. Polydorus and Patroclus carried Chryseis out of the carriage. The girl was covered in sweat, her young face crumpled in pain. 

“Deiphobus is at the citadel. Perhaps he can find someone who will deliver the baby,” Polydorus offered. 

“I’ll send him a message.”  
\----------------------

He’d never imagined how hard it was to find a midwife, in central Argos where the neighborhoods were packed with families. He went to every infirmary in the city, knocking on the doors to ask for services, but was turned away with a shake of the head when he didn’t have a name on a waiting list at the ready. Perhaps there was a reason why women went to the countryside to give birth. He’d never given it a second thought before. 

“What about the physician?” Deiphobus suggested, when he arrived at the house. “The one you’ve been paying for?” 

“I don’t know,” Polydorus moaned, looking panicked. “I tried to contact him but he wasn’t in his house.” 

“Hey,” Deiphobus said, putting both hands on Polydorus’ shoulders. “It’s going to be alright. Hector and I will track him down. We’ll find him. Worst case, she’ll have to give birth without a midwife.” 

“I should have planned this out better,” Polydorus muttered. “Should have arranged for her to go to Simoeis. That’s what mother did, our grandmother, our great grandmother …” 

“You did your best,” Deiphobus reassured him.   
\---

They went looking for the physician. It was nearly sundown when he appeared, looking surprised to see two aristocrats waiting outside his door. 

“The girl,” Deiphobus said, forgoing a greeting. “My brother Polydorus says you’ve been seeing her?” 

“Chryseis,” Hector added. “She’s in labor.” 

“Take me to her,” the physician replied, looking resigned.  
\-------------------------------------------------

And so they waited, outside in the courtyard. The sun had set and the night was cool, the scent of jasmine strong in the air. 

“I went to get Helenus,” Patroclus whispered, looking at the ground. He looked guilty. “Probably a bad idea.”

Hector shook his head and squeezed Patroclus’ fingers. “He’ll come around. He must want to see his child, even once.” 

Patroclus didn’t reply, laying his head on Hector’s shoulder as they waited through the night. Chryseis and the physician remained in a guest chamber, and there was no word. Not yet. 

“She’s going to want money,” Deiphobus voiced, frowning. “To raise Helenus’ child. Think she’ll keep quiet about it?”

“Stop it,” Polydorus chided. “Of course we’ll help her. And perhaps she’ll let us see the little one. After all, it’s our nephew. Or niece. I think she would.” 

“It’s _Helenus’_. Why isn’t he here?” Deiphobus grumbled. 

Polydorus had no answer to that.   
\-----------------------------------------------------

They had nearly all retired to bed, it had gotten so late. “Try to sleep, love,” Patroclus said, sitting up and looking down at Hector. “I could feel you tossing and turning the past few nights, you know. It’s almost over.” 

“It _isn’t_ ,” Hector sighed. “This is going to be hanging over our heads for the rest of that child’s life.” 

Patroclus took his hand and kneaded it, putting pressure on the individual bones of his fingers, the tendons and muscles. It felt good, nearly enough to help him relax. 

“So is it true that Danaans read palms? Back when your people were nomads?”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. “Really?” 

“Just asking.”

“Perhaps I could read yours.” Patroclus traced his finger over the lines on Hector’s palm. “See where those two lines meet in the middle? Perhaps it’s a sign of a crossroads in life.” 

“Interesting.” 

“Or indigestion.” 

Hector snorted. “I see your point.” He let Patroclus continue tracing over his skin, the light touch making his eyes fall shut.   
“Perhaps you could make something up for me.” 

“A good night’s sleep, then,” Patroclus replied. “If the lines say so, then surely it must be true.” 

“You’re not very good at this.” 

“Go to sleep, Hector.”

It was the last thing he heard, before nothing but darkness met him, pulling him into the recesses of slumber.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t know how long he slept before they were woken up, but it was still dark, Patroclus curled up next to him and breathing evenly. There was a frantic tapping on the door, getting louder every second he delayed. 

“So much for a good night’s sleep,” he sighed, rolling off and trudging over to the door. 

It was Polydorus.  
“Hector,” he said. He stared at Hector for a second, then his face crumpled. 

“What? What is it?” He knew.   
“She didn’t make it, did she?”

“No,” Polydorus sobbed, wiping his eyes and swiping a hand over his nose.   
“What are we going to do?” 

“Is the child dead too?” 

“No! It’s a girl,” Polydorus replied, managing to calm himself enough to speak clearly.   
“Helenus has a daughter.”   
\----------------------

Polydorus remained in the guest room with Chryseis’ body, speaking to the physician. 

“What usually happens in this situation?” Hector asked, though he already knew the answer. 

“Exposure?” Deiphobus voiced, unwillingly. “But we can’t. It’s … it’s Helenus’.” 

The thought of leaving a child out in the open to die or be collected by someone else … this was one of their own. Perhaps Helenus had broken his vow, and risked his own life and their family’s reputation in the process, but … he couldn’t imagine a more unspeakable deed. Especially to a healthy newborn, who would have had a mother to care for her if the circumstances had been different. 

“We cannot make this decision without Helenus,” Hector affirmed. 

Deiphobus stood up, features darkening. “I’ll go get him. I don’t care if I have to drag him here.”   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Want to hold her?” Polydorus asked, softly, the little bundle in his arms. Their niece. He still looked sad, but most of his attention was on the child, cradling her carefully against his chest. “Hector?” 

Hector hesitated. He shifted over and took a peek at her face, pink and wrinkled. She was small, even for a newborn.   
“I’m sorry, little one,” he voiced, reaching out and taking a hold of her tiny fingers. “What a way to enter this world.” He glanced over at Patroclus, who watched them silently. 

“We’ll make sure she has a good life,” Polydorus replied. 

Hector shook his head. “I’m not sure how much we can promise that.” 

“But we can’t give her up!” Polydorus exclaimed. “She’s part of this family.” 

“She doesn’t have a mother, and her father is a Son of Tros who will be executed if he is found out.” Hector kept his voice stern, even though it pained him to do it. “We have to be realistic about these things.” 

The door opened, and Deiphobus entered, Helenus rushing in behind him.   
“Where is she?!” he exclaimed, expression betraying the level of anguish and terror he felt. 

“Hold on, Helenus.” Deiphobus placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t you want to see your daughter?” 

“Where is Chryseis?” Helenus yelled. He ran over to the hallway, thinking to look through all the guestrooms, but Deiphobus stood and blocked his way. 

“Helenus,” he said, voice gentler than before. “Look, Chryseis -” he hesitated, swiping a hand at his forehead. 

Helenus stared at him, eyes starting to widen. 

“She died, Helenus,” Polydorus said. “I’m sorry.” He hung his head, hands clutching the baby even closer. 

Time seemed to stand still as they stayed where they were. Helenus had started to tremble, angry tears gathering in his eyes. “I want to see it for myself,” he growled, pushing past Deiphobus, only for the older brother to hold him back. Deiphobus shared a look with Polydorus, who only shook his head sadly. None of them were allowed to enter the room, while the physician washed and laid out Chryseis’ body. It was a moment of quiet observation, the deceased’s last chance of privacy and dignity, and Helenus was well aware of that.

“You can see her when the physician has completed his work. Tomorrow, perhaps,” Polydorus replied, braving Helenus’ look of agony. 

“I want to see her now!” Helenus launched himself at one of the doors and tried to open it, only to find it locked. Shouting angrily, he banged on it with his fist, the sound echoing throughout the hallways. Deiphobus restrained him, dragging him away to the waiting room, but he kept on struggling. 

“Gods, Helenus!” Deiphobus shouted, letting go of him. 

Helenus got up and went to the door again, tears streaming down his face. Deiphobus sighed and let him, looking unhappy. He must have banged on the door for nearly an hour when Polydorus finally got up and left the room, unwilling to hear any more of it. 

“That’s enough, Helenus,” Hector reasoned. 

“Don’t touch me!” Helenus yelled, when he started to approach him. 

Hector shared a look with Patroclus, who had been standing some distance away, looking haunted at the scene before him. 

Patroclus suddenly strode forward and led Helenus away, gripping him firmly even when he was pushed back. 

“You _fucking whore_!” Helenus screamed at him, but Patroclus only held him tighter, putting his arms around him until Helenus collapsed to the floor, finally giving in from exhaustion. They stayed there until morning, when the door opened, the physician having kept his vigil for the night.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Where is Helenus?” Polydorus asked, later in the day. 

Patroclus looked up from where he was sitting. “He’s asleep.” 

Helenus had stayed in the room with Chryseis, and they had left him alone, until she was taken away to the nearest funeral house. 

“He doesn’t want to see his daughter,” Polydorus stated, a forlorn look crossing his face. “He wouldn’t even look at her.” 

“Because he can’t,” Hector voiced. “At least, not after this. He can’t have anything to do with her. Helenus is in no position to be a father.” 

“Then you have to, Hector.” Polydorus looked up at him, gaze alert. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. You’re the only one of us who can have children legitimately.” 

“That’s not …” Hector started, feeling the unease settling within him. “I …” he glanced at Patroclus. 

“She’s our family!” Polydorus insisted. “What difference does it make?” 

What difference? The fact that she would grow up never knowing where she came from? The fact that his brother would never be able to come home without seeing his child raised by others? He could think of a few things. 

“Hector,” Patroclus said, catching his attention. “No one would question us. There would be no reason for the priesthood to suspect Helenus if the child is ours.” 

“You can’t think this is a good idea,” Hector objected. “We have never planned to be parents, Patroclus!” 

“She’s your niece. And it would keep Helenus safe. If you can think of something better …” 

He got up, pacing the room, the thoughts racing through his head. Him and Patroclus? Taking a child under their wing? The gods were having their laugh at a twisted joke. 

“We could take her to Simoeis,” Patroclus suggested. He got up, taking Hector’s arm. “You would never abandon your own blood. If there’s anything I know about you at all, it’s that.” 

He looked at Patroclus, looked into those eyes. Patroclus had never wanted this, he knew. He had promised him many things. They both had, on that distant day under oath by the gods. They had made a pact to build something together, to bring their families together, to make a name that would last through the ages. It was the work they both did, and there had never been talk of anything else. The fact that Patroclus was still here, patiently awaiting his answer, despite the change it would bring to their lives, their plans. It made him see Patroclus in a way he had been too blind to notice. 

_If you had ever planned on leaving me._

Looking at him now, he knew he would never have to ask it again.


	12. Chapter 12

On the fifth day of the week he would ride to Simoeis’ fortress, watching how the stone building grew in size from the last time he visited. When they passed by on their trips to and from Argos, the vast outline of the building could be seen emerging from the trees, no longer a forgotten relic. It was impressive, spanning the length of the hills, where the open fields on either side could not be accessed without coming into contact with its fortified walls. 

This was his family’s legacy, he thought, watching the procession of builders entering and exiting the massive structure. He had overseen the work all this time, and in a few weeks, it would be complete. Perhaps one day little Eirene would ride into these fields and know this as her birthright, the gateway and protection of her hometown. 

The estate was nearly unrecognizable now, a hubbub of activity, where the farmers gathered to present their seasonal reports of harvest and exports to neighboring regions. This was not the Simoeis he had arrived at as a newlywed, its ways a remnant of distant childhood days. This was here, and now. This was his home.   
\---

He recognized the standards of the Regime’s secretariat as soon as he reached the front of the main house. It was a well-known sight on the estate, ever since Polydorus had assumed the position of Head Secretary several months ago. Now, his brother spent most days traveling between Argos and Simoeis, securing agreements between their family and the council. When the fortress was finished, Agamemnon and Menelaus would start sending their troops. 

He could already hear Polydorus in the receiving room, chattering away to the staff. As much as he wished his brother would stay for longer, Polydorus’ duties at the citadel kept him busy. 

“Well? What news do you bring now?” he asked.

Polydorus turned around, looking distinguished in his secretary’s robes. He strode over to Hector for a quick embrace.  
“It might surprise you, brother, but it’s not news I bring this time. It’s an invitation.” 

Hector felt a prickling at the back of his neck, the faintest suspicion arising. He took Polydorus’ arm, leading him to the sitting area. “What’s this about?” he asked, bending his head to reach Polydorus’ ear.

His brother’s answering smile indicated he knew something Hector didn’t. “You are being called for a meeting with the council.” 

What? 

Hector frowned. “Are they not satisfied with our arrangements so far?” They had been working on this for months. It had taken quite a bit of negotiating for both Agamemnon and Menelaus to agree that their soldiers could work together in Simoeis’ garrison. 

“The opposite,” Polydorus replied. He leaned forwards, looking around to make sure they weren’t being overheard by anyone else. “There is talk of an open seat on the council. I can’t confirm it, but word has been going around that High Lord Dolon can no longer continue his duties. He took massive losses at Dardanus, and has been going downhill since.” 

“So they are going to kick him out?” Hector questioned, doubtful. 

“The high lords only remain in their seats for as long as the council is in agreement that they are suitable for the position. If the rumors are true, High Lord Dolon might have a hearing. Or he might choose to retire to avoid the embarrassment. Either way -” Polydorus took a seat. “This is what we have been waiting for, brother.” 

Hector contemplated this, feeling apprehensive at the idea. Polydorus wasn’t wrong. This was what their father had always envisioned. A seat on the council would reinstate them as one of Argos’ most important families. Everything they had lost, generation after generation, could be theirs once again. But he hadn’t imagined it would happen so soon. His brother was being overenthusiastic, he thought. 

“I wouldn’t speak too soon if I were you, Polydorus. Our main focus is ensuring everything goes well with our stronghold. There is too much depending on that.” 

Polydorus acknowledged this with a short nod. “Well, you leave in a week. And -” he hesitated. “Perhaps it would be best to go alone.” 

Hector snorted, shaking his head at Polydorus’ concern. “Usually I would defer to your opinion, brother. But Patroclus will come with me, of course.” 

“It’s just - the Danaans _have_ been making their mark on the Regime’s inner circles, but … it doesn’t mean they are completely accepted. There is still a long way to go, on that matter.” 

“The council is fully aware that I am married to a Danaan. They’ll just have to accept it a lot quicker than they’re used to.” In his mind, the conversation was over. They were past the days when Danaans were not allowed to set foot in the citadel, and he’d be damned if he was going to adhere to their outdated customs. 

Polydorus sighed. “Alright. Well, don’t forget to tell Patroclus I stopped by. And give Eirene a kiss for me.” 

Just like that, he was gone. Much had changed, indeed.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lemon trees crowded the walkway into the back of the house, where the horses were kept in their stables. Patroclus had them planted the week they returned to the estate, the young saplings imported from Hire. They didn’t have to speak of it, the memories behind them, but now, every time he walked outside he was greeted with the fresh scent of citrus, the cool breeze on his skin. So different from Argos. He hardly thought of the Blue Quarters anymore. 

“We shouldn’t take this lightly,” Patroclus noted, one eye on Eirene as she balanced on the grass. She couldn’t walk just yet, but she was determined to stand, and they would watch her attempts until one of them had to keep her from stumbling over.   
“It’s a rare honor to be invited to the citadel. In front of the full council, nonetheless.” 

“They have never acknowledged us until now. What could they possibly want?” 

Patroclus smiled, leaning against Hector slightly. “What don’t they want? Perhaps a year ago we might have been lurking the corners of Agamemnon’s fete, unnoticed.” He shot Hector a playful look. “Dodging backhanded comments from your relatives.” 

The memory made Hector smile. 

“But this isn’t the case anymore. Simoeis is quickly becoming a significant location outside Argos proper. Perhaps the only one. They will be quick to realize this when it comes time to meet the Achaeans again.” A few feet away, Eirene rolled onto her knees, catching at the dandelions around her with small fingers. Patroclus strode forwards and scooped her up, balancing her in his arms as she giggled in delight.   
“We’ve cast our lot, and cast it right.” 

Hector nodded, unable to mask his continuing disquiet. He stood with his arms crossed, watching the rolling hills in the distance.   
Patroclus’ eyes were on him. Gods, there was no hiding anything from that man.   
“It’s about time they recognized your efforts. There’s no denying that.” 

Eirene started to burble, reaching a chubby hand towards him.   
“Take her,” Patroclus said, handing over the child. “I’m going to ask Penelope to make arrangements for our trip.” He rolled his eyes. His relationship with their housekeeper was still rocky at best, even though Penelope had gotten used to having him around by now. 

Hector held Eirene against his chest, looking down at her uncomfortably as her attention was caught by the buttons on his sleeve. He’d started warming up to her, he could admit, but her presence would always tug at a string in his heart, one that reminded him of a lone figure in the House of Tros, once again separated from the rest of them. 

“What do you think?” he asked. Eirene blinked up at him, a button caught in her mouth.   
“An honor or an inconvenience?” She started to frown, the hairs of her eyebrows barely there.   
“My thoughts exactly,” he nodded. “At least we have _something_ in common, little one.”   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last time he’d been up here, the whole of Argos had been with him, listening to the tides turn on their fate. Funny how ordinary a place could look, when the crucial moments were taken away, fading into the past. He could sense Patroclus’ tension, a mixture of excitement and nervous energy, having never actually entered the halls of the citadel’s main building. 

Judging from the subtle stares they received left and right, Patroclus would remain an uncommon sight in the gathering place of the high lords. They were escorted by guardsmen who brought them past the offices, towards the council’s meeting hall. Polydorus probably worked somewhere close by, he noted, observing figures rushing to and from the offices, many clad in secretary’s robes. Next to him, Patroclus’ gaze roved over their surroundings, taking in every single detail. 

“Hector son of Priam and Patroclus son of Menoetius!” the announcer yelled, as the doors were pushed open to reveal the interior of the council hall. This was the center of the Regime, where every major decision in Argos was made. He stepped through, meeting the gazes of the six members of council who were present. The seat on the far left was empty, he noted. High Lord Dolon was not in attendance. 

The room was smaller and more intimate than he’d expected, the high lords seated at a long table on one side, the opposite side reserved for guests. Guardsmen stood along the walls, and the windows overlooked the entirety of the citadel, the scenery of Argos beneath it. 

“Welcome, Hector son of Priam,” one of the high lords spoke, when they had taken their seats. He was an older man, seated next to Agamemnon, who watched calmly from his chair. High Lord Nestor, he recognized.   
“We are most honored you were able to accept our invitation.” 

“One does not simply deny a request from the council, my lord,” Hector replied. 

Nestor and Agamemnon shared a glance. Hector kept his eyes on them, wanting very much to let his gaze wander, to examine the other high lords around the table. He knew it was what Patroclus was doing. But this was more than just a meeting. They were observing him, he knew. It would come down to a show of strength, and he could not allow his thoughts to become conspicuous. 

“We regret that this meeting has been delayed for a number of months,” Nestor conceded.   
“It does not escape our notice that ever since you took your father’s place, you have remained an upstanding member of Argive society. We applaud your efforts, son of Priam.”

“I thank you,” Hector replied. 

Nestor turned towards Agamemnon, seemingly waiting for him to speak. The council’s most renowned member leaned forward in his chair. Hector had seen that face time and time again, during speeches here on the citadel, and occasionally at the Assembly. He’d never seen him up close.

Sitting in his chair, so they were level to one another, Agamemnon looked no different than any other citizen of Argos. He had a good ten years on Hector, perhaps fifteen, and his serious, dark eyes were watchful and perceptive. This was the man who had brought Argos every victory before the holy war was announced. Leader of the knights, and perhaps the only one of the council who had risen to power on his military success alone. Not a man to be turned aside, or underestimated. 

“You have served in two wars, son of Priam?” Agamemnon questioned, his voice more quiet than Hector expected. 

“That I have, my lord.” 

“And you were enlisted for both Lyrnessus and Dardanus. General Idomeneus reports you were a major contributor in both victories.” 

Hector frowned, having not anticipated this. “I suppose. My lord, I was under General Idomeneus’ command at Lyrnessus. My suggestions would not have been carried out without his approval. As for Dardanus -” he glanced at Patroclus. “We were taken captive and forced to utilize last resorts to escape the city.” 

Agamemnon nodded, eyes flickering towards Patroclus for a second. “I am well aware of your actions, and how they affected the outcome of both battles. I am most interested in the general’s trust towards your judgment. Tell me, you _are_ the brother of Knight Commander Deiphobus?” 

“I am.” 

Agamemnon smiled a little, looking intrigued. “And you were never enrolled in the knight’s academy?” 

“There is merit to serving the state,” a voice cut in from the far right. “Perhaps Hector son of Priam’s first priority lies in serving Argos.”

Agamemnon did not turn his head, but his smile faded. Hector looked to see who had spoken, a younger man perhaps his own age, with a pleasant face. He looked familiar, but Hector couldn’t place where he had seen him before. 

“I do not deny that Hector son of Priam’s service to the state reaches the fullest extent,” Agamemnon replied. “But a man in the state army who has attained such commendation from his superior. It is rare.” 

Hector did not know what to say to this. He inclined his head at Agamemnon, a gesture of acceptance. 

“And you are most gracious to provide use of your stronghold, of course,” the other council member added. 

This time, Agamemnon did turn his head. “My troops are ready to depart for Simoeis in a few weeks’ time. What say you, Menelaus?” 

Menelaus. Of course. Hector took another look at the man. 

“Simoeis will be home to Argos’ greatest stronghold,” Menelaus agreed. “It is ambitious to form a garrison with our two armies, but I am positive we will succeed. And -” he looked at Hector, gaze intent. “The garrison will be under your supervision.” 

Hector raised an eyebrow. Under _his_ supervision? He did own the land, but he had assumed they would send their generals to oversee formation of the garrison. This was … unforeseen. 

Menelaus smiled amiably. “This is to your satisfaction, son of Priam?” 

He had to recover himself, remembering where he was, all eyes watching him expectantly.   
“Of course. It is a responsibility I do not take lightly.” 

“Then we are in agreement.” The members of the council rose, signaling the conclusion of the meeting. Hector was left even more unsettled than before as he and Patroclus made to leave the building.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“They are going to offer you the seat,” Patroclus insisted, later that night. 

Hector sighed, covering both eyes with his arm to block the lamplight. He had developed a tension headache that started at the back of his neck, and could feel the stiffness all the way down his shoulders and back.   
“How can you be sure?” 

“Supervising the garrison is a test. They wouldn’t assign it to you if they weren’t serious about considering you for the position.”

Patroclus held Eirene in his lap. He had argued with Penelope about bringing her along. In truth, Eirene had grown out of her nursemaids, but the housekeeper was old-fashioned and insisted the child was too young to be brought to the city. As always, Patroclus ignored her advice. He didn’t like being away from the little one, however much he protested when Hector mentioned it. 

“I suppose,” Hector sighed. A thought crossed his mind. “What did you think of that Menelaus?” 

Patroclus tilted his head to one side, considering. “What about him?”

“You didn’t think he looked familiar?” 

“I’ve never met him. Neither have you,” Patroclus reminded him. 

Hector frowned. “Well, it will come to mind eventually.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come here.” 

Patroclus smirked at him. “Giving orders already? You aren’t High Lord yet, my love.” 

“Stop mentioning it.”

Patroclus chuckled, climbing onto the bed, Eirene still in his arms. They lay back for a while, deep in thought over what had transpired throughout the day. 

“It will happen before you know it,” Patroclus whispered, glancing at Hector from the corner of his eye. 

“It’s too soon,” he whispered back, linking his fingers with Patroclus’.   
“Don’t be too angry with me if I have a hard time accepting it.” 

Patroclus was silent for a while. “You do not realize how much you could bring to the Regime, Hector. Being on the council is what your father might have wanted, yes. But he did not have your mind, or your heart.”

“What are you saying?” 

Patroclus turned to him, so they were face to face. “Don’t you think you could make a difference?”

“... I’ve thought about that everyday. But … I am only one man, Patroclus. And an imperfect one at that. Who’s to say I should ever hold power?” 

“It’s not an easy burden to take on. But you know the consequences. The realities of it. I think you could make a great leader for our people. I know you can.” 

He gazed at Patroclus, as the lamplight faded into darkness, the sound of the trees outside as the wind blew through them. There was a tiny flutter in his chest, the very core of him, for he had never truly felt like someone to be believed in. Deiphobus and Polydorus depended on him, yes. But this raw belief, from someone who could match him on every level, intellect and wit alike - he didn’t know what to make of it. It was only the warmth that spread through him at Patroclus’ words, that let him know - if it was any kind of fear that held him back, it was the fear of letting Patroclus down.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Soldiers from Argos were arriving by the dozen, Agamemnon’s and Menelaus’ flags waving at the fortress’ entrance. He stood back and watched as the garrison situated itself within the walls of the stronghold, men who had pledged their lives to the state and the high lords they served. It had become so real - the sight of their horses, the gleam of newly polished armor. In a week or two, Simoeis’ status would change forever. 

Both Agamemnon and Menelaus had ridden out to oversee their men’s arrival at the fortress. It was a symbol of unification - that whatever differences they had personally, it was being put aside for a greater purpose. This was a first attempt for an Argive garrison on state soil, and its success would make both men’s careers. Hector was beginning to see how the council worked - high risks, but not without a promising outcome. 

There was one good thing that came from the high lords’ involvement in the stronghold. Deiphobus had been put in charge of Agamemnon’s men. They would see each other far more frequently, now. 

Agamemnon had dismounted from his steed and was approaching Hector, striding casually as though he did this every day.   
“Walk with me, won’t you?” 

They went over to the south side of the fortress, and Hector could see Agamemnon taking in every detail, a master strategist’s eye over the fortifications.   
“Tell me, son of Priam - what do you know of the Myrmidons?” 

The question caught Hector off guard; this seemed to be a pattern with Agamemnon. He thought back to Patroclus’ words, in their tent underground. So many stories, but he had the sense the high lord was looking for something specific.   
“They are great conquerors of the east. And their Warlord, Peleus … he has a reputation for being a most dynamic ruler.” 

Agamemnon’s lips twitched - it wasn’t humor. The man had an appreciation for efficiency, and Hector had begun to catch on to it.   
“A real threat to Achaean government - they are not known for their stability, are they?”

“Perhaps this Peleus will change that. If he succeeds in overthrowing the current governing body.” 

Agamemnon’s eyes flashed at the statement. “I do not pretend at knowledge for how Achaean politics work. But if it can be judged from their military endeavors, there is a real chance that the Myrmidons will continue to dominate.” 

“And you think it only a matter of time before they bring the battle to Argive soil.”

Agamemnon gave Hector an acknowledging look. “Sometimes compromises have to be made.” He glanced at the troops bearing Menelaus’ crest, a downward tilt to his mouth. “It will be a challenge to unite the garrison when loyalties are divided.” 

Hector found himself studying Agamemnon. Perhaps the most spoken name in Argos, and he had known so little about the man himself. He was learning quickly - Agamemnon was a man of action, and liked it when others could draw conclusions for themselves. In a few vague sentences, he had laid out his entire plan for the future of the holy war - and Hector was expected to meet it. Hector didn’t know whether to be impressed or unsettled. There was a reason Agamemnon’s army was the most elite in the state; the generals under his command had to be the most perceptive in the field, or they wouldn’t survive under his authority.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You were right,” he admitted, against Patroclus’ skin. The water lapped against the edges of the bath, large enough to fit the both of them. Nights like this were going to become rare, he thought, as he envisioned the myriad of work that had to be done. 

For now, the heat of the water felt good against his tired muscles, Patroclus leaning comfortably against him. 

“Hmm?” Patroclus asked, a pleased smile on his face; he knew exactly what Hector was talking about. 

“Seems like an age has passed since then. But you did say no one becomes High Lord by being unprepared.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Patroclus replied, resting his head on Hector’s shoulder, his hair several shades darker when it was wet. 

“You guessed how Agamemnon would act even before meeting the man.”

“Must have been my palm-reading abilities,” Patroclus quipped, one eye opening to gauge Hector’s reaction. 

It made him laugh; the idea of Danaans’ abilities to divine the future had become an ongoing joke between them. “All that from staring at my hand? You are more powerful than I thought.” 

“It’s all in the lines,” Patroclus replied, closing his eyes again. 

Hector traced the sinewed shape of his shoulder, thoughts once again occupied by the past. 

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Patroclus complained. 

“Do you think he’s right?” He could tell Patroclus was not in the mood for discussion of the holy war, but his mind wouldn’t be able to rest if he didn’t get it out. “That the Myrmidons are capable of taking Ilium?” 

Patroclus was silent for a while. Finally, he straightened, looking over his shoulder at Hector, gaze once again serious. “There is nothing they aren’t capable of. But are we not the same?” He paused, giving Hector room to consider it. “Have we not defeated the Achaeans twice?” 

“But the Myrmidons are different from other Achaeans. From what you’ve told me.”

“They are still Achaeans. They want the same things.”

Hector hesitated, wondering if he should voice the question he had wanted to ask for a long time. Ever since their nights in Dardanus’ tunnels, when Patroclus had recounted his time among the enemy.   
“You said they don’t think like us.” 

Patroclus raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue. 

“How did you do it, then?” He didn’t have to say it for Patroclus to know what he was asking. Patroclus had told him once, the extent he had gone to in order to make his way through the Warlord’s inner circles. It would have taken patience, cunning, and a great deal of observation. But he had gone even further. In different circumstances, he would have been the Warlord’s son-in-law by now. And one night in Lyrnessus had swept him away from the Aristos Achaion, greatest of the warriors and heir apparent. 

Patroclus’ gaze had turned distant, a small line appearing on his forehead. Slowly, he looked back at Hector, a sharpness in his expression Hector had only seen once before.   
“I told him I loved him.” 

The water was getting colder around him, evaporating from the tub, and he felt a slow shiver run through him as his skin was exposed to the night air. There was no filling the silence that had taken its place between them. He faced Patroclus, unsure of what his expression betrayed. 

“What is he like?” 

Surprise flickered onto Patroclus’ features, turning into a small frown.   
“What is it about the Myrmidons you’re so fascinated by?”

Hector shrugged. “Perhaps it’s the way you tell it.” 

“I await the day you meet them on the battlefield. Then it will be your turn to recount their tales.” 

“I want to know who it is we’re fighting. All this time, the war has meant little to me. How is that going to change if I know nothing of the people we face?”

Patroclus considered this. “I will tell you anything you want to know,” he replied. “But -” he looked straight at Hector then.   
“I want you to dismiss Eirene’s nursemaids.” 

Hector frowned. “Why?” 

“She’s grown out of her wet nurse. And I don’t care what Penelope says - I don’t want strangers raising our daughter.” 

Hector blanched. “Strangers? They’re -”

“And you will put her to bed from now on.” 

He was at a loss for words. After a moment, Patroclus’ expression softened. “She doesn’t need an entire staff to look after her, Hector. She needs _you_. And your love.” 

“It’s not that I -” Love wasn’t the question. She was his blood, and he couldn’t deny that he cared for her. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for the child. But every moment with her … he was stealing it away from someone else. He had never been able to shake the feeling, ever since they had brought Eirene to Simoeis. 

He could tell how plain his thoughts were to Patroclus, from the way the other man was looking at him.   
“Whatever the technicalities are,” Patroclus started. “She is _our_ child. You’re still uncomfortable spending time with her. But Hector - you aren’t taking anything away from Helenus by being with her.”

He sighed, knowing deep down that Patroclus was right. 

“Just one night,” Patroclus said. “For a start.”   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn’t help that Eirene was a perfect mirror to Helenus himself, those shiny brown eyes and hair that curled only at the ends. He remembered his last visit to the Temple, before they left for Simoeis. 

“You could say goodbye,” he’d said, watching Helenus’ figure tending the hearth. 

A silent shake of the head, his brother’s face hidden from his view. 

Now he sat with the little one in front of her crib, letting her chew on his sleeve.   
It was so peaceful in her nursery. Penelope had not been pleased to hear that half the women in her employ had been dismissed. Her feud with Patroclus was never going to end after this, and he couldn’t stop the surge of amusement at the thought. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said to Eirene, her bright eyes looking up at the sound of his voice.   
“Perhaps when you’re older, you can tell me all the things I did wrong.” He chuckled. “I won’t get angry. I promise.” 

She started to burble, little hands grabbing at him until he held her closer.   
“I’m going to make so many mistakes, little one. I’m -” he paused and leaned his head against the chair.   
“If only you knew the truth of where you came from. Then I wouldn’t have to break your heart when the time comes.” 

How he wished she understood him. 

“But I can tell you - you are always wanted here. We have a long way to go, to get to know each other. If I could give you everything, I would.”

He placed a kiss on her head. Love wasn’t the question. She had slowly carved her place in his heart. But she was under his care now, and by Io, he was trying.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day by day he rode out to the fortress, ensuring the men learned it like the backs of their hands. He could empathize with General Idomeneus now, at least. This was far more work than running a single unit. Although the men reported directly to their knight commanders, Hector was expected to know everything that went on, to have the final word on every decision. The council would reconvene at a later time to determine the garrison’s success, and every minute counted. 

He could do this, he thought. It was only a few months’ work, before the garrison could run on its own. With Deiphobus’ help, the troops at Simoeis could become a well-oiled machine, formidable enough to match enemy invaders, to defend Argos down to the last man.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been another late night, fortification plans and the troops’ training schedules laid out all over the floor. His desk had overflowed, so he had taken to laying on his front, studying them over and over again, making notes for the next reports. He hadn’t realized it was morning when Patroclus opened the door, sighing at the state of him. 

The air had changed in Simoeis since the arrival of the troops. News had gotten around that the army’s occupation of the territory would be permanent. Within a few months, the relationship between the locals and the troops had progressed from outright avoidance to a hesitant alliance. The troops depended on the locals for their food supplies, and over time, the people of Simoeis were won over by curiosity. 

It was during this time when Hector noticed something odd as he made his rounds of the farmlands. His work at the fortress often kept him away from his regular duties in Simoeis, but there were several days when he had the time to visit with the farmers. This was one of those days. 

One of the farmers had invited them to see the seasonal harvest. It could be quite mesmerizing, stalks of wheat and barley gleaming golden in the sun, the laborers going through row after row with their scythes. Simoeis continued to be abundant, and he remembered how Patroclus had credited the local nature gods for a bountiful harvest. 

_It can’t hurt to show some small acknowledgment_ , he’d said. Sure enough, Patroclus had brought along the modest offerings, and was leading Eirene by the hand to one of the roadside shrines, ready to catch her if she fell.  
“Careful now,” he said, placing a cookie in her hand, making sure she didn’t drop it. 

“I see you’re intent on making her a real local,” Hector called. 

“This is her home,” Patroclus called back. “Best she learn something of its gods sooner than later.” 

Hector walked over to them, watching Eirene trying to place the offering in front of the shrine’s effigy, her attention captured by the straw model more than anything. She pointed at it, immediately forgetting the cookie. 

Patroclus shot Hector an amused glance. “It looks like one of her dolls.” 

“I wonder what the locals would say about a baby destroying one of their shrines,” Hector replied. He took Eirene’s hand, slowly guiding it to the plate of food others had laid out for the deity. It was then that he spotted the little statue next to the shrine. 

“What … is this?” 

Patroclus peered over, frowning in confusion. “It’s … a statue of Tros.” 

Hector picked up the statue, turning it over in his hand. It was roughly the size of his palm, intricately detailed. He had never seen anything like it before. Images of the priest-king were rare, even in Argos. 

“Tros is not popular with the locals,” Hector mused, unable to fight off the peculiar sensation of such an uncommon sight. 

Patroclus shrugged. “Perhaps it’s one of the soldiers’.” 

That didn’t explain what a statue of Tros would be doing at another deity’s place of worship. If there was one thing that differentiated the countryside from the city, it was the influence of the priesthood. The Sons of Tros had always been a representation of the city itself. There was a reason why belief in the priest-king did not spread to the outer regions, because it simply did not make any sense. The lives of the peasants and the city folk were vastly different. 

He could not shake the feeling all day long, how out of place the statue had looked, how imposing. He’d taken it with him and kept it in his pocket.   
\---

It wasn’t the last time he saw the emergence of the statue. 

“Some of the men have been keeping it in their quarters,” Deiphobus reported. “I couldn’t say anything about it, but it’s odd. I’ve seen people carry amulets of Danaos or Io, for protection. But Tros?” Deiphobus frowned. “What does he have to do with the war?” 

Deiphobus had been inspecting the men’s individual quarters in the fortress’ barracks. He’d returned with a small sack, which he emptied onto Hector’s desk. There was the sound of clinking as tiny statues, identical to the one Hector had found, clattered onto the tabletop. 

“This does not happen in the city,” Hector remarked, a wave of unease settling into his gut. 

“I could ask the men about it,” Deiphobus offered. “Find out who’s been leaving them at the local shrines.”   
\---

He had them lined up on his desk, and no matter how much he tried to continue his work, he kept coming back to the dilemma of the statues. It was later on when he picked one of them up, inspecting the miniature figure, when it hit him. 

The Sons of Tros were styled after the priest-king himself. Their white robes, closely shorn hair, even the way they carried themselves. Examining the statue, he realized he’d seen the pose time and time again. That quiet grace and dignified posture, a quality that every priest at the Temple embodied, his own brother included. 

And that was why Menelaus had looked so familiar, that day at the council meeting. He hadn’t met the man before. But seeing this now, he couldn’t stop the thought from forming in his mind. Menelaus had been a Son of Tros.


	13. Chapter 13

“Look who’s here!” Deiphobus crowed, weaving through the masses of soldiers in the barracks, busy men who were trying to go about their day. Hector had developed a real rapport with the troops over the months. He was greeted left and right with cheerful shouts of “Captain!” as he passed by the men, completing his weekly inspection of the garrison. He had found that it was better to be hands-on. These soldiers, some who had made it to the ranks of knighthood, appreciated an overseer who was one of them, despite being the person they made their reports to. 

There was no mistaking the towering figure behind Deiphobus, even with how crowded the barracks could get at this time of day, soldiers changing shifts and hurrying to complete various tasks in time for training. Deiphobus had a huge grin on his face, and Hector couldn’t help smiling himself when he came face to face with their cousin. 

“It’s good to see you, Sarpedon. Or should I say ... General?” Hector greeted, watching Sarpedon grimace in embarrassment at the title. 

“I’m not quite there yet, cousin.” Sarpedon clapped a hand on Hector’s shoulder good-naturedly.

“Nonsense. They’re having the ceremony in three days,” Deiphobus rebutted. 

Sarpedon’s long-time contributions as a knight commander in Agamemnon’s army were overdue for recognition. Just a few weeks ago they had received notice of his transfer to the stronghold in Simoeis, to relieve Agamemnon of having to make the trip quite so often. He would act as a middleman, assisting Hector with his supervision of the garrison, but also compiling reports and sending them to the city. 

In truth, Hector was glad to have the help. The past few months had been rewarding, but chaotic. He couldn’t count the number of late nights he’d had, buried in paperwork, while also trying to juggle his duties on the estate and in the farmlands. Simply put, he was exhausted. Sarpedon’s presence would at least lighten the load, as they completed the garrison’s training and prepared for their final report to the Council. 

“This is impressive,” Sarpedon noted, watching the activity around him. “In a few short months, you’ve managed to get this place up and running.” 

Hector shrugged. Work was work. 

“And I hear you have an addition to the family,” Sarpedon continued. He didn’t notice how Deiphobus avoided looking at either of them at the statement. While Deiphobus was fond of Eirene, he’d never been comfortable with secrets. It must have taken everything he had not to tell Sarpedon about Helenus.

Their cousin smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited sooner.” 

“I know you’ve been busy,” Hector replied. “Come. Let’s get you situated here.”   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The barracks were always lively at night, when the soldiers got off duty and had their food brought in by the local peasants. They were well-fed, the food supplies routinely replenished with Simoeis’ grains and livestock. Deiphobus had been right at home here all this time, beloved by the men in his contingent. 

He rarely came over to the estate, but with Sarpedon around, it made sense to have someplace to rest outside the stronghold’s grounds. Their cousin had spent much of his childhood here too, and Hector often forgot about that. 

“This isn’t quite the Simoeis I remember,” Sarpedon commented, as they strolled through the estate’s grounds. He shared a look with Deiphobus when they reached the stables. “Do you remember the time we left the door open and the horses escaped? We spent hours trying to get them back.” 

“And father beat me until my ass was sore,” Deiphobus muttered, shaking his head at the memory. 

Hector rolled his eyes. From the way he remembered it, it had been _him_ who’d had to wander the lands for hours, calling out for the horses. Deiphobus had always been the one getting up to all kinds of mischief, sometimes roping in their cousin or Polydorus, while Hector had been left to take responsibility for it. This had happened most in the days when he’d grown out of their games, too wrapped up in his own daydreams of getting away and seeing the world. Deiphobus had followed him around then, desperate for his big brother’s attention. 

He could picture it now, four boys running around the estate’s grounds. Their mother, urging each of them to behave. And their father, a looming presence in the study, where they mostly avoided. He smiled at the memory, though it was more bittersweet now than ever. When would they ever be together again? Perhaps the days for that had passed.   
\---

Most nights, Deiphobus and Sarpedon could be found in the hall playing draughts. They drove Penelope up the wall, Hector knew. Especially Deiphobus, who shamelessly raided the pantry and wine cellar whenever he pleased. The servants loved him and would rush to get him whatever he wanted, all the while avoiding Penelope’s strict eye. 

Eirene would get excited hearing their voices echoing through the hall, standing up in her crib so she could peer over the edge. 

“She’s lovely,” Sarpedon had said, when he’d met Eirene, reaching out a hand and letting her grab on to his fingers. He’d smiled politely at Patroclus, although the two of them had never gone past the usual pleasantries. Hector remembered Sarpedon’s words at the Night Assembly. He’d been the first person to mention Patroclus, noting his arrangement with the Myrmidons. Whatever his opinions were now, he kept them to himself. 

Hector often wondered how Sarpedon could be related to Xanthus and Laodamia, but then again; he himself was proof that sometimes the apple not only fell far from the tree, but ended up in a different field altogether.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All was quiet as they walked through the empty fields, past pathways that led through the farmland. The night was clear, glimmering with constellations scattered across the deep blue-black of the sky. Ahead of them, the low humming of country hymns pervaded the silence, the procession of farmers and peasant folk celebrating the first day of spring. 

As they approached each separate field, the path was brightened by hundreds of candles in silver tins, lining the roads, lighting up the shrines and casting a warm light over the trees. There was a kind of magic to it, a lingering sense of the otherworldly, though perhaps it was just the shadows and sounds around them. 

Not the first time they had joined in the local festivities, he thought, an arm around Patroclus and Eirene, glancing at their expressions as they took in the sights. It had been what sealed their relationship with the farmers, their willingness to join in and embrace the longtime customs of these people. And Eirene was finally able to experience it, when the year before she had been too little, asleep and nursing at this time of night. 

His arm tightened around them when they approached the end of the procession, the crowd ready to disperse and make their way home. The closer inwards they got, the roadsides were bordered with statues of Tros, until everywhere they turned, the image of the priest-king greeted them in all his stark aloofness.

He had watched as belief in the priest-king made its way to the far reaches of Simoeis, slowly spreading over the months. The shrines of the local nature gods were overwhelmed, a mixing of the two cultures, until one threatened to take over the other. Perhaps there was no harm to it. But something inside told him otherwise, even as the Festival of Tros made its appearance to these parts, where previously it had never been observed. 

It was the first day of the festival. And already, he braced himself for what was to come.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes he got up early and sat by Eirene’s crib, waiting for her to wake up. There was something about her presence that gave him peace, whether it was her babbling, or the way she looked up at the sound of his voice. These were precious moments, he knew, her child’s mind blissfully safe from the changes that went on around them. 

Outside her window was a newly built House of Tros, its white stone gleaming in the sunlight. Out of place, a novel sight outside the city. 

They had started coming out here, one by one. The priests, who had previously never been seen to leave the city. There was no doubt in his mind who was behind it, but it was a force that could not be fought with sword or spear. The word of Tros was not meant to be spread, not like this. The Sons were keepers of the city, and there was no place for them out here. He didn’t know what Menelaus was trying to accomplish, but the thought of it filled his head in all his waking hours.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I thought I’d find you here,” Patroclus’ voice sounded out from behind him, hands coming to rest on his shoulder. He made a quiet noise of acknowledgment. 

He could tell Patroclus was watching him, guessing at his thoughts. Looking up, he saw that the other man’s gaze had drifted to the window, where it was impossible not to catch sight of the little temple. He reached up and squeezed Patroclus’ hand. 

“Not something we can avoid,” Patroclus whispered, giving him a sober look. He wondered how Patroclus felt; watching the place he now called home filled with a part of Argive history that had caused his people’s seclusion for centuries. 

A deeper predicament was how much a role the priest-king’s dogma was meant to play in their child’s life. There was no erasing her heritage - but she had been born in a world where the priesthood had caused more adversity than not. They had brought her out here, thinking Simoeis was untouchable from the influences of the city. And they had been wrong.   
\---

He watched the movements of the priests, how they went about their day at the temple as though it had always been there. At this time of day there would be a gathering of people, newcomers to the faith; they grew in numbers by the week. To think it had all begun with a group of soldiers, and statues the size of his palm. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” he could hear Patroclus lifting Eirene from her crib. “Somebody’s been sleeping well.” The sound of soft kisses.

The preaching was about to start. He drew the window shut, blocking out the voices below. It was not something he wanted to hear, not now.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“There’s no denying how charismatic he is,” Sarpedon admitted, when Hector managed to get a moment alone with him. His cousin’s level-headedness would be helpful to figuring this out. 

“What does Agamemnon say of this?” 

Sarpedon sighed, looking around them uncertainly, as though a Son of Tros would pop around the corner at any second. “This might be the first time what he says doesn’t matter.”

“They have been digging deep into their sacred texts. All this talk of Ilium being the birthplace of Tros. That has never been part of the holy plan.” 

“What does a former priest do to win support?” Sarpedon proposed. “What do any of us do, in that position?” 

Hector pursed his lips, the answer close at hand. “We stick to what we know,” he replied. 

“Exactly. He has never been able to gain the upper hand over Agamemnon. He came close, at Dardanus. But Agamemnon was always too popular with the public. In order to change that, he had to appeal to something even closer to the people’s hearts.”

“And he has the Sons of Tros behind him,” Hector growled. “It is no small thing.” 

“We have to tread carefully, Hector,” Sarpedon said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We have to consider the consequences when the scales begin to tip.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The festival was coming to a close, and it had been a long time since he’d felt such relief at seeing something end. Once, he’d admired how the hundreds of candles lit up the house, making it glow bright from afar. Now he observed the servants putting them out, one by one, the smoke curling up to the ceiling in dark wisps. A release of pressure, deep in his chest. 

The sharp odors of incense were going to his head, and he felt the need to get away from it all. However vast and spacious the halls were, they seemed to close in, trapping him in this strange world so different from a year ago. 

The balcony was where he liked to go, looking out over the stretches of land, inhaling the cool air until his head cleared bit by bit. There was no light, just the quietness of the shadows. It was beautiful, he thought, seeing Simoeis in these small hours. There was always another side, a darker reflection only seen when he knew to search for it. 

“Do you want to be alone?” Patroclus, coming out onto the balcony next to him. 

He looked down at him, dressed down for the night, bare feet making the slightest sound on the smooth floor. He shook his head, shifting over a little so Patroclus could lean on the parapet beside him. 

“Doesn’t this seem familiar?” Patroclus nudged him, and he could hear his smile. 

A night like this, two years ago. 

The corners of his mouth began to lift, before he knew it. He turned to Patroclus; a Danaan stranger at the Night Assembly. A meeting of minds in a time of uncertainty. And now, it was all he knew. He studied Patroclus’ face, every corner and curve and line. Perhaps it would have surprised him to realize he knew it by heart. Even in the pitch blackness, he could point out where the cheek gave way to a smile, the crinkles in the corners of the eyes. When had he known to learn someone so closely? 

In other times the silence between them would have been comfortable. But tonight it rang in his ears. There was something his throat was begging to scream, but it had been silenced. And he didn’t know the words. But he knew Patroclus, and his response came naturally. 

“So much of it, we’ve made into our own.” 

Patroclus’ shoulders rose, a sign of surprise. “You remember.” 

“Remember? Those were the words that made me want to marry you.” 

A long silence, then Patroclus let out a breath of air. “I should have known you were so easy.” But his fingers found Hector’s, on the cool marble. 

A light breeze drifted over them, and he closed his eyes, letting the sensation over his skin soothe his thrumming heart. 

“Did you?” he asked, when they had stood there for so long, his feet felt rooted to the ground. 

Patroclus glanced at him in a silent question. 

All at once the words stuck to his tongue. “Did you love him?”

Patroclus’ fingers tightened over his. He thought he wouldn’t reply, at first.

“Men will go to far reaches when they think they own your heart.”

He contemplated this, the minutes passing by, dragging.   
“Not answering, I see.” He kept the words light, his tone betraying nothing. Patroclus didn’t owe him anything. 

“Why does it matter?” Patroclus asked, sounding resigned, but not upset. 

“Perhaps it doesn’t.” 

“I chose _you_.” He had turned to Hector now, so close their bodies were nearly pressed together. 

“That you did.” 

Patroclus’ chest heaved, the beginning of a hushed laugh.   
“And you never asked me why.” 

He had never needed to. Day after day, month after month. Patroclus’ fierce loyalty, his ideas, and perceptions. They had slowly become a part of him, like second nature.   
“Would you tell me?” 

Patroclus gazed at him for a while, in that thoughtful way of his. 

“If you’d known how I lived my life,” he started. “How I had always lived. By a set of rules, that I had made for myself. They were what I needed to survive. My father, my brother … the Myrmidon elite.” 

He had turned away, looking out over the balcony again. 

“I knew from the start, when I met you. All of my tricks, and devices - you were someone who would never fall for them. And it _baffled_ me.”

A small smile had made its way to his face. “I thought, wouldn’t it be funny? If for once, I broke all my rules. All for someone who saw everything that I was. Everything that I am.” 

The minutes passed. He counted each breath he took. Slowly, he put his arm around Patroclus, drawing him closer, until they were joined at the hip.   
“That is not all you are.” 

He could feel Patroclus’ eyes on him now.   
“You think I made a choice that meant safety, for myself, and my family. That is not the case. I took a risk. Perhaps the greatest one yet.” 

“And how has it worked out for you?” 

Patroclus smiled, laying his head on Hector’s shoulder. “I suppose it could be worse.” 

The laugh was out of him before he realized it, the rush of his thoughts quelled like the candles in the house, nothing but smoke left behind.


	14. Chapter 14

It was a small ceremony, the knights of Agamemnon’s army standing in rows to witness Sarpedon receive his general’s sash. As he turned towards them, the sound of a synchronous salute echoed throughout the hall, row after row, each man acknowledging his general. The pride was clear on Sarpedon’s face. There were few men more deserving, Hector thought. 

The trumpets blared as they exited the fortress, which had become a primary gathering place for the troops in Simoeis.

“They’re leaving so soon?” Patroclus questioned, observing Agamemnon and his other generals departing on horseback. 

“This is usually quite informal,” Deiphobus replied. “All the ceremony is because Sarpedon is the first general to be appointed at our stronghold. It’s good for morale.”

Patroclus nodded, looking pleased at the thought that Simoeis had become an auspicious location for the army. “Your turn next,” he added, grinning at Deiphobus, who flushed. 

“Not for a long time, I don’t think,” Deiphobus insisted. Patroclus shot him a dubious look, glancing at Hector for support.  
“Perhaps you could convince him.” 

Hector snorted. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in your own abilities, Dei.” 

Deiphobus raised his eyes to the sky, looking exasperated. “Oh yes. Me, a general. After all, I’m just so intimidating, aren’t I?” 

Patroclus pursed his lips, as though seriously considering an answer. “I _was_ intimidated when I first met you.” He winked. “Until you opened your mouth.” 

Deiphobus blinked. Then he started to wheeze, his laughter coming out in short bursts of air. He turned to Hector. “Do you hear this? Defend me, brother.”

Hector started to reply, but fell silent when he spotted the slow retinue leaving the fortress. Menelaus astride his horse, poised and dignified like an equestrian statue. A little behind him rode two Sons of Tros, arrayed in their full priestly attire, straddling the steeds with little difficulty. That quiet grace, the withdrawn manner they carried themselves in. How had he not noticed from the beginning? There could be no doubt where Menelaus had come from, now.

“Bold of him,” he whispered crossly at Patroclus. “Bringing them here.” 

Patroclus said nothing, merely trailed the priests’ departure with his eyes, lips quirked in dissatisfaction.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I trust you’ve gotten my letters?” Polydorus called, nearly stumbling out of his carriage, two sacks of scrolls being dragged out behind him. He looked completely dishevelled, a deep crease on the side of his face as though he had fallen asleep on the edge of a desk. Yet, his expression was bright, eyes gleaming in excitement. 

“All fifty-seven of them, yes,” Hector drawled. 

“It’s been insane, brother. _Insane_.” Polydorus lifted the sacks and dropped them into Hector’s arms, beckoning at him to follow. 

They ended up in the study, Polydorus managing to get himself settled enough to recount what had been happening in the city. From what Hector understood, his brother had been running around the citadel, struggling to keep everything in balance. It was a tough job, gathering information, keeping his eyes and ears open, and being expected to provide counsel on the next steps for the war. 

“Menelaus has just about managed to turn everything upside down,” Polydorus groaned. “He wants to march on Ilium. _Ilium_! When we’re barely keeping a rein on Dardanus.”

“His army _has_ expanded. And it _is_ the point of the war,” Hector admitted. 

“Ilium is having problems of its own. There is talk that it won’t be long until the Myrmidons come out on top. Just the other week, a good amount of its government officials were slaughtered. Achaeans don’t play around.” 

“It would be wise to strike when the city is experiencing a period of instability. But … if the Myrmidons take over, will that ever be the case?”

“The Warlord Peleus is unlike the other Achaean rulers. His people are loyal to him. And his son, the Aristos Achaion, is not far behind.” Polydorus sighed, rubbing at his forehead.  
“It has become a worry that Menelaus has attained too much popularity with the public. I fear that if he persists, the council will have no choice but to join his side.”

“With our current resources … the troops divided between Agamemnon and Menelaus … do you think it would be a mistake to launch an attack so soon?” 

“It wouldn’t be like the other battles, Hector. Ilium is the heart of Achaean rule. To march in there, and recapture it - it takes planning, far more than we’ve managed to do so far. It takes a knowledge of the enemy that we simply do not have.” 

“Menelaus doesn’t strike me as an impulsive man. Every move he’s made so far … it’s been calculated.” 

“But he is a man who wants to make an impression,” Polydorus reminded him. “Marching on Ilium this early in the game is a bold move, one that will not go unnoticed by his supporters. If he succeeds, it might win him Argos for good.”

“What of Agamemnon?” 

“... He remains an outlier.” It was no secret that Agamemnon was more or less opposed to how Menelaus approached the war. Their professional relationship had counted on their involvement in Simoeis’ fortress, but Hector suspected that could change at any time. 

They spent the rest of the afternoon going through Polydorus’ scrolls, ruminating over the possibility of Menelaus succeeding. All these months, his efforts to spread the sect of Tros outside the city. There was a clear purpose now that Hector could picture, and it would linger at the back of his head for a while.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deiphobus was bent over with his arms outstretched, cheering Eirene on as she slowly wobbled over to him. Each tiny step brought on a loud whoop from him, trying to keep Eirene’s attention until she went the whole way. Hector watched them with amusement, leaning against the garden wall.

“She’ll be riding on horseback before you know it, Hector!” Deiphobus exclaimed, holding Eirene and lifting her into the air, drawing out a peal of laughter every time. Hector shook his head, unable to stop his grin. That was a long way away, as far as he knew. Though, he had taken her to see his horse once. 

Deiphobus’ fun-loving nature could be contagious, especially around a child. His brother was still swinging Eirene around when Patroclus and Sarpedon showed up, looking slightly awkward that they’d run into each other by themselves. 

“She’s got a good sense of balance, this one,” Deiphobus announced, putting Eirene down. She tottered over to Patroclus and grabbed at his leg until he picked her up, planting a kiss on her head.  
“Anyway, what are you up to?”

“Sarpedon was just informing me that he has some news,” Patroclus replied, nodding politely at the man. 

Their cousin had an abashed smile on his face, looking back and forth between all of them. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything yet,” he started. “But I suppose I _would_ like you to be the first to hear of it.” He grimaced. “Before my parents start spreading the word.” 

“Aside from becoming general, you mean?” Hector questioned. 

Sarpedon nodded. “I’m getting married.” 

Hector raised his eyebrows. This _was_ news. He was surprised Xanthus and Laodamia had managed to keep quiet about it at all. Io knew they would have chosen someone high-profile for their son. 

“Who’s the lucky one?” 

“High Lord Nestor’s daughter, Polycaste,” Sarpedon replied, a soft look on his face at the name. So it was a love match. Hector clapped a hand on Sarpedon’s shoulder. 

“My deepest congratulations, cousin. I’m sure you will be very happy together.” 

He turned towards Deiphobus, who had fallen silent beside him. Surely his brother would have something to say by now. Deiphobus was looking anywhere but at their cousin. Frowning, Hector moved to nudge him, but Sarpedon was already making his way back to the garrison. Deiphobus left as well, without a word, heading towards the opposite direction. 

This left Hector standing in confusion. Were they having an argument? People could be so strange.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t even dawn yet and someone was knocking on the door. He recognized the taps. There was only one person who would even be up at this hour. Groaning, he untangled himself from the sheets, unwilling to be separated from the warm comfort of Patroclus’ body. 

The other man cracked open an eye, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the noise. “Tell Polydorus to go away,” he grumbled, voice muffled and sleepy.  
\---

“What?” Hector demanded, holding the door open an inch. 

Polydorus stared back at him. He had an odd look on his face, like he was brimming over with excitement but didn’t quite know what to say.  
“It’s happened, brother,” he whispered. His face stretched out into a grin. 

Hector slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.  
“What’s happened?” he frowned. All the possibilities were running through his head, coupled with the grogginess from sleep. 

Polydorus reached into his pocket and retrieved a scroll, the seal of the Regime stamped into its side. “This was sent in earlier.”

Hector took it from him, breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment, a gnawing sensation in his chest as he had an inkling of what it would say. The words seemed to blur as he uncovered each line, staring him in the face. 

They’d done it. 

The council had received Hector’s final report on the garrison and now … he had been offered a seat.

High Lord of Argos. 

Gods.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ride to the city was longer than he was used to. Perhaps it was the constant churning in his gut, the pounding in his temple, in anticipation of what was awaiting him at the citadel. For the first time in a long while, it had been a real possibility. But, perhaps he’d never truly thought that it would come to pass. Now it wasn’t just a distant opportunity anymore. It was his reality. 

He imagined the look on his father’s face, finally achieving everything the man had laid out for them. It only made him clench his fists, the knuckles turning white. He hadn’t even thought of his father, not for a long time now. With everything that had transpired in the past year … Eirene … his mind had been occupied.

Patroclus’ voice echoed through his head. _Don’t you think you could make a difference?_ It made him relax a little, closing his eyes. It didn’t matter. Whatever reservations he had, he’d been entrusted with a responsibility that was greater than himself. The mantle was his to accept, and everything they had worked for … it had led him here. There came a time when uncertainty had to be set aside. It was the way the world worked.  
\-------------------------------------------------------

His initiation into the council was far more private than he’d anticipated, in that same room he’d stepped into months ago. The other high lords were present, rising from their seats as he joined them. His eyes were fixed on the empty chair at the far left. 

“We welcome you, Hector son of Priam.” Nestor was the first to speak, having seniority over the others.  
“It is our honor that you take your place among us.” 

Hector stared back at the older man evenly, then turned his head to acknowledge each member of the council. His gaze rested on Menelaus, who greeted him with a wan smile. 

Agamemnon approached him, carrying the emblem of Argos, engraved on a stone tablet.  
“You will swear an oath of fealty to Argos and the Regime. Do you accept?” 

“I accept,” Hector replied, placing his hand on the stone. 

Agamemnon’s voice rang throughout the room, words of binding being proclaimed. As Hector repeated them, all eyes were on him, the final piece falling into place. There was no going back from this now, he thought, even as his lips continued to move. The images drifted through his mind; the soldiers at the garrison, the people of Simoeis, his family. He had a duty to all of them, now.  
\-----

The bells had been rung in the city, the announcements sounding out that a new high lord had been chosen to serve on the council. Already, the posters with his name and lineage were being put up in every street. He imagined them in the Blue Quarters, where the house was quiet and empty.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Servants were clearing up the dishes, the clinking and the chatter and the music playing in the distance - all a swirl of noise around him. He didn’t think he’d paid attention when each course was served. Someone would take away his plate and he’d be too lost in his own thoughts to notice. 

There was a clatter as a serving girl dropped a plate, spilling sauce all over the polished floor. It made him frown, his mind drifting to a different time. Family dinners, at the table in their city house. They were all here - Deiphobus, Polydorus, Patroclus. The only one missing was Helenus. His chest hurt at the thought, glancing at the place between Polydorus and Deiphobus, where their youngest brother would have been sitting. 

There were too many people. Agamemnon and Nestor had ridden out to Simoeis to join in the feasting. Even the generals Idomeneus and Deucalion were present, eager to celebrate someone who had fought alongside them. It was all a messy haze, and he thought he would suffocate. The air was too stale, the lights too bright. His collar stuck to his skin and he wanted to yank it away, yank the buttons off. 

“I trust you’ve gotten used to the countryside, High Lord Hector?” Agamemnon’s voice. He snapped his head up to look at him.

“It does have its charms,” Nestor added, giving Hector a wry smile. 

“I suppose it must seem provincial compared to the city. But it has become home,” Hector replied. He glanced beside him at Patroclus, letting his gaze settle on him. “Hasn’t it?” 

Patroclus looked at him, the barest hint of surprise becoming noticeable. “... Yes.” He smiled, one of the rare ones, reserved only for moments when they were alone together. “It has.” 

He didn’t turn away. The weight in him had begun to ease, feeling grounded again, pulled away from the past. He found himself watching Patroclus, who continued conversation with the other high lords, comfortable in his own skin despite being in a room full of Argive elite. He looked particularly beautiful tonight, Hector thought. But then, he always did. 

Hector sighed, standing up and excusing himself from the table. The dinner was coming to an end, anyway. This would be the last night where he would be allowed a moment of peace. The demands of the future nagged at him, but tonight, he would take his moment and savor it.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What are you doing here?” 

He had gone out into the gardens, wanting to breathe the fresh air, only to find Deiphobus sitting on the edge of a fountain. The trickle of water was pleasant to the ear, and he settled down beside his brother, thinking of the various times they had stayed like this, just talking. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” Deiphobus gave him a look. “It’s _your_ feast.” 

“Which means I’m the guest of honor,” Hector shot back. “The guest of honor can leave at any time.” 

Deiphobus rolled his eyes, but the grin was on his face, and he bumped Hector’s side with his elbow. 

“I didn’t see you leave. Aren’t you always bragging that you’re the life of the party?” Hector watched his brother, hoping to lighten the air, but Deiphobus didn’t seem to be in the mood. 

“Sometimes you get tired of how things are,” Deiphobus replied, after a few minutes had passed by. “How they always will be.” 

He frowned, looking at Deiphobus more intently. Something was off. 

“I think I want to transfer back to Argos,” Deiphobus whispered. He glanced at Hector nervously. “I was going to ask Agamemnon tonight.” 

Minutes without a response caused him to look even more guilty. 

Hector shifted to face Deiphobus, his full attention captured now. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“I’m sorry,” Deiphobus said. “It’s been nice, getting to see you all the time.” He smiled a little. “And Patroclus, and Eirene.”

“What’s wrong, Dei?” he repeated, gently this time. 

For someone as open and carefree as Deiphobus, getting him to admit something could be like pulling teeth, at times. His brother simply shook his head, hunched over. Suddenly, he was a boy again, the same one who had run with Hector to the docks, climbed onto the roof, and counted ships with him. The one Hector had always sworn to protect, no matter what. Even when Deiphobus had become a warrior, one of the best - some things would never change. 

“It’s Sarpedon, isn’t it?” He said it lowly, so Deiphobus could pretend not to hear if he wanted. There was a second when he thought he would. 

“Want to know the truth about me, Hector?” Deiphobus asked, voice small. “The brave knight commander you know? It’s a lie. I’m just as much a coward as any other man.” He winced as he said it. 

All at once, it was back full force. An anger, that his brother could say such words, believe them. An all-encompassing love, wanting to take them away, to make Deiphobus see what Hector did every day. 

“That is not true.” 

“But I’m running away.” The look on Deiphobus’ face. He hadn’t looked like that, ever. “Only a coward does that.” 

Hector sighed. “I’m sure whatever is going on between you two, you will work it out. If it means going back to Argos, to take some time for yourself. Deiphobus, no one would blame you for it.” He paused. “That _is_ what is happening, right?” 

Deiphobus gave him a strange look, then. “I … Hector …” He seemed at a loss for words. 

Hector thought back to the past week. The past month. The past years. Deiphobus had gotten quiet again, crossing his arms and staring at the ground. He’d always seemed so happy when Sarpedon was around. He’d … 

_Oh._

Deiphobus met his gaze unhappily. “You must think I’m disgusting.” 

“Dei …” 

“Our _cousin_.” 

“Stop, please. That is not what I think.” 

Deiphobus placed his head in his hands. “It’s so _stupid_.” His shoulders had started to shake a little. “I - I -” He was struggling to get the words out, his voice thick. Hector put his arm around him, pulling him close. 

“I’ve been - ” A tear had fallen down his cheek, and he wiped it away, angrily. He cleared his throat, straightening.  
“Do you remember when we went to the Night Assembly, when you came back from pilgrimage?”

“Of course,” Hector whispered. 

“That night,” Deiphobus started. “I thought it was happening. That he finally felt something for me. And then he came to visit, after you and Patroclus were married. He came to see _me_. He transferred to Simoeis and I thought … _Gods_ I’ve been a fool.”

He tightened his grip around Deiphobus. 

“I’ve been waiting for him,” Deiphobus said. “I was always … waiting.” Another tear dripped down, and he furiously dabbed at his face with his shirt. 

“I have loved him my whole life.” 

A slow pang filled him to the core. How had he been so blind? These past few months, Deiphobus had been over the moon. Only to have his hopes come crashing to the ground.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late. And he couldn’t get to bed. Eirene had fallen asleep in his arms, breathing softly against his shoulder. He glanced down at her, wisps of hair over her forehead, eyelashes fluttering closed. To be a child again, to feel safe and comforted. 

He had gravitated to the window, watching the outlines of the trees in the darkness, an eerie contrast to the warmth that was Eirene’s nursery. What was that lullaby his mother had sung? A hymn to Io, goddess of all that man’s sight could reach. His mother would have loved Eirene, he thought. But there was no bringing back the ones who were gone. Perhaps the closest they would get to meeting each other was walking the halls of a home they both loved. 

A soft cough, and he turned to see Patroclus in the doorway, watching him with a gentle look.  
“Where have you been all night?” But his tone was curious, not at all a demand. 

He shook his head, moving to lower Eirene back into her crib. Once she had been so little, her sleeping place towering around her like Simoeis’ fortress. Now she could just about climb out of it if she wanted to. 

“There are things you learn about people, even when you’ve known them for a long time.” 

Patroclus raised his eyebrows in question, but he didn’t elaborate. He linked their fingers and they made their way back through the halls, talking quietly even though there was no one else around. 

He closed the door behind them, and moved to stand face to face with Patroclus.  
“You’re pleased.” 

Patroclus’ smile stretched across his face, eyes glittering in the sparse light.  
“My husband is High Lord of Argos. What isn’t there to be pleased about?” 

He was silent, looking at Patroclus. It hadn’t even occurred to him that this was something to be happy about. But the pride on Patroclus’ face … it moved something in him. For the longest time, it had never truly mattered to him what anyone else thought. With Patroclus … it mattered. It mattered very much. 

He let out an amused sound as he thought of this. It had always been this way, from the moment they had met. And he’d only just realized it. What a fool he was, he thought. High Lord of Argos, or a farmer in the distant south. What difference did it make? That look in Patroclus’ eyes - that was the only thing that meant anything to him. 

He returned Patroclus’ smile, placing his hand on his face to feel it, thumb moving over the line of the lips. 

“What’s the matter?” Patroclus whispered. He could surely guess everything Hector was thinking. 

“Nothing,” Hector said. 

Patroclus didn’t look convinced. 

They stood there, letting the knowledge sink in of the changes that had happened, all in the span of a day. Some things would remain the same, he thought. Power didn’t necessarily take away the centuries of oppression that had shaped Patroclus’ life, the lives of his father and brother. But … Hector was a member of the council now, and Patroclus would be at his side, whispering in his ear. In a way, some small part of Argos’ future would be controlled by a Danaan. Patroclus would make his mark, whether or not it would be recognized. 

“No strange looks in the citadel anymore,” Hector murmured, gauging Patroclus’ expression. 

“At least not to my face,” Patroclus grunted. 

His expression turned playful.  
“How would you like to spend your first night as a leader of Argos?”

His hands came up to Hector’s chest, fingers tracing the collarbone.  
“My lord?” 

“No,” Hector said, covering Patroclus’ hand with his own. “Not that.” 

“No?” Patroclus tilted his head. 

He moved to kiss him, but Hector held him in place, fingers moving around his wrist. 

“I may be, in Argos. But here, never that.” 

Their faces were almost touching, eyes fixed on each other. He could see the rise and fall of Patroclus’ chest, the small crease next to his mouth when he was amused.

“Not my lord, then,” Patroclus muttered, and slowly pressed his lips to Hector’s neck, the slow movement making his toes curl. His arms had come up around him, pulling him close. Hector’s grip loosened, watching Patroclus carefully, hands moving underneath his clothes to feel the smooth skin there. They were pressed up against each other, their kisses turning heated, gasps of breath the only thing breaking the silence. He could feel Patroclus' lips at his ear, moving to whisper in it. 

“ _My love_.”


	15. Chapter 15

“It would be a mistake not to take action!” Menelaus’ exclamation rang throughout the room, it was the first Hector had heard him raise his voice. Here was something the man was passionate about, he thought. Pity it was something that could very well lose them the war before they’d even had the chance to begin. 

“We know nothing of how they operate!”

“Are you saying we learned nothing from Dardanus?” 

Left and right protests were being made, but the high lords were more divided than they had been a month or two ago. It was no easy thing objecting against Menelaus now. Whatever their qualms, he had risen as the face of the Regime, neck to neck with Agamemnon, and if the people’s voice meant anything … he was proof of that. 

Menelaus had accomplished much in so little time. He had brought an entirely new perspective to the war, that they fought for the birthplace of their priest-king Tros. A mortal man, who had been deified. One of _them_. The idea that men could be chosen as one of the gods, to reign in the heavens. He had chosen an ideal that spoke to every citizen, that represented every Argive’s deepest desire. Some could call it propaganda, but it _worked_. Whatever the council had to say, there was no taking away from that. 

A month ago, the Warlord Peleus had taken his place as sole ruler of Ilium. And now they were gathered here, Argos’ seven. 

Hector mused over this as the council spoke over each other. Curious that they had chosen the fortress as their meeting place this time. He met Agamemnon’s gaze as the thought crossed his mind. There was one thing they agreed on - that the stronghold provided the security their troops needed. They had trained hard, and were well-prepared to meet the Achaeans on their own soil. In Ilium, it could very well be the opposite. 

Menelaus was willing to throw that away in favor of glory. The stakes had just been raised, and each player held their cards at the ready. So many decisions.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A recess had been called, until they had time to reconvene again. There had been too much frustration, too much uncertainty. The fate of Argos could not be determined without a majority vote. 

His head was swimming as he made his way back to the house. Too many minds, too many opinions. How could one person begin to sway them all? Yet Menelaus did it with ease. It would be a mistake to march on Ilium. They would lose good men. They would lose everything they had managed to accomplish. 

He cursed as he swung the doors open, wishing there was someplace he could scream. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the meeting?” Patroclus was frowning, and covered in a sheen of sweat. The room smelled of herbs, a wave of steam coming out from the direction of the bath. 

“It’s a recess. Who knows how long they’re going to take,” Hector grumbled. He peered behind Patroclus, where Eirene was nestled on their bed, a hand over her face. “Is she any better?” 

Patroclus glanced behind him, dark circles under his eyes. Eirene had woken up with a cold that morning. “I’ve been steaming up the bath every few minutes. She’s finally stopped crying.”   
He looked up at Hector. “Don’t tell Penelope.”

“Don’t you think she could help?” 

“If she comes in here and starts faffing around, I am going to scream.” Patroclus took a seat, smoothing out his clothes. 

“It’s been a hell of a day.” He walked up to Patroclus and laid his cheek against the top of his head, closing his eyes. If he could hole up in this room forever, away from all the meetings. His mind had been occupied by problem after problem. The work never ended. Ridiculous of him to think that running the garrison had been a tough job. It was nothing compared to this. There wasn’t a single member of the council who didn’t have grey in their hair, not even the younger ones. 

“Argos is this close to falling apart,” he sighed. He could feel Patroclus looking at him, that same reassurance in his gaze as there always was, even in times like this. 

“You know what to do,” Patroclus said. 

Hector frowned. “And if I can’t convince -”

“No one said anything about convincing.”   
Patroclus slowly stood up, both hands coming up to cup his face. “You’re going to wear yourself down fighting a storm. When the waves come, do you pick up your sword?”   
His thumbs were stroking Hector’s jaw, where the stubble had begun to grow. 

“You’re saying … that I shouldn’t fight it?” 

“I’m saying - you’ve seen this before. When has force ever gotten you what you wanted? In this game, we adapt, or we lose.” He paused.   
“What have you been asking me all this while? What have you learned?” 

The words sparked something in him. Night after night, he had listened to tales of the Achaeans. Firsthand accounts, from someone who had lived among them. That was something no other member of the council could claim. 

“You already have the weapons, love. Use them.” Patroclus’ fingers stroked his chin, nose coming up to nuzzle against his jaw. 

Hector looked down into those perceptive eyes, that never missed a thing. In another world, Patroclus would have been a ruler of men. There was no doubt of it.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------

“I’ve had a chance to think about it,” Nestor announced. The room was quiet, each high lord waiting with bated breath on what the senior member would say.   
“And again, there is no avoiding the fact that we are unprepared!”

The room erupted into a wall of noise again, some agreeing with Nestor, others siding with Menelaus. Across from him, Agamemnon had his chin in one hand, deep in thought as he observed the room. 

“Are we?” It began to quiet down as all of them turned towards Hector in confusion. He let his gaze wander over each of them.   
“Did you know they are unmatched in craftsmanship?”   
He looked over at Agamemnon. “When it comes down to it, the fortress can withstand anything they bring to the field. But if we are forced to march on Ilium … we know where our resources must go.” 

Agamemnon gave a nod of acknowledgment. “No expense can be spared to outfit the army. How do you think the people will respond when we raise taxes again?” He eyed Menelaus as he said this. 

Don’t fight the storm, Hector thought. They had to use what they knew to ensure Menelaus didn’t get what he wanted.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunlight streamed through the windows, blinding him. He pulled the covers up, turning his back on the glaring light. Two brown eyes met his own, blinking wide.   
“I see someone is feeling better,” he said, putting his arm around Eirene. She made a happy sound, gnawing on her fist.

“You don’t mind, do you? She wouldn’t sleep in her own bed last night.” Patroclus was watching them sleepily. 

Hector said nothing, merely ruffled Eirene’s hair with his free arm. They were past the days of her bawling in the middle of the night. 

“Ugh, I don’t want to get up,” Patroclus complained, glancing out the window. He rolled over, curling up around Eirene and leaning his forehead against Hector’s. “Can’t you tell my father that I’m the one who’s sick? Or dead. He’ll believe that.” 

“I think he’d be rather disappointed,” Hector quipped. “You have been putting off seeing him for a while.” 

“I don’t understand what he wants. His businesses have been flourishing ever since you became high lord. Isn’t that his cue to leave us alone?” 

“Ah, except he did fund most of the fortress’ construction. I’m afraid he can come and go as he pleases. Perhaps for the rest of our lives.” 

Patroclus glowered. 

“Come on, what’s another disapproving stare? Even Eirene can do it.” Hector tickled her in the middle of her forehead, bringing out a frown.   
“See? If you can endure that, you can endure anything.”  
\----------------------------------------------

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Menoetius was, indeed, impressed at what he saw around him. It wasn’t the first time he had been to the estate, but much had changed since then. 

“You’ve been making excuses not to see me,” he declared, one steely eye on Patroclus. 

“I always make excuses not to see you, father,” Patroclus replied. 

“Hmph. I suppose you must be busy with council affairs, these days.” 

“Ask Hector.” 

“The fortress is adequate.” 

Patroclus quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “High praise coming from you.” 

Menoetius’ stoic demeanor did not change, but there was an air between the two that hadn’t been there before. In the past, their confrontations had always been clouded with a kind of tension neither had the willingness to break. They would never be close, but perhaps … patterns _could_ be broken. 

“Not the worst idea you’ve had, I suppose,” Menoetius admitted. He looked over at Eirene, who was playing on the ground at his feet.   
“Not sure about that one, though.” 

Patroclus made an exasperated sound. “Only you would say that about your own grandchild.”

“Just because you’ve decided to raid an orphanage doesn’t make me a grandfather.” But Menoetius reached down and patted Eirene on the head, frowning at her when she beamed at him.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What?” Patroclus grumbled, but he was unable to hide the smile that kept threatening to take over. He turned his face away, but it was no use. 

“People can change after all,” Hector remarked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Oh, shut up. He was just being self-important, as usual.”

“He acknowledged something you did. Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Patroclus rolled his eyes, looking at Eirene in his arms. “Your father is being silly,” he told her. 

“Sil-ly,” Eirene said. 

They stared at her. 

Then Patroclus let out a sharp wheeze, turning into a full-blown laugh, the sound warm and contagious. 

“Hmm,” Hector said, crossing his arms in mock disapproval. Patroclus was laughing so hard tears had started to form in his eyes. 

A sharp rush of happiness filled him at the sight, a tingling sensation all the way to the back of his neck. 

Patroclus set Eirene on the ground, bending over to catch his breath. She looked up at Hector in uncertainty, one hand grasping Patroclus’ shirt, wanting to be picked up again. 

“I can see when I’m being ganged up on,” Hector huffed, even when Patroclus put his arms around him and kissed him, again and again, laughing against his skin.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“They’re going to vote in Menelaus’ favor,” Polydorus sighed, running a hand through his hair. All this while in the Head Secretary position and Hector tended to forget how young his brother was. 

“You’re certain?” 

They were walking through the hallways outside Polydorus’ office, listening to the hustle and bustle of the secretaries and scribes. He had arrived to cast his vote, a simple act of placing a stone in a box. At the end of the day, the votes would be counted, and they would know. 

“It is you and Agamemnon against the rest of them, Hector.” He didn’t think Polydorus was supposed to know this information, but his brother had his ways. Polydorus suddenly halted and turned to face Hector, grabbing both of his arms. “It might be wise not to show direct opposition, brother.”

“I’m not directly opposing him.”

“But he will want to know who voted against him, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You and Agamemnon have been the most invested in the fortress.”

Hector pursed his lips, contemplating Polydorus’ words. 

“Come.” His brother led him over to a window overlooking the city, where they had a good view of the citadel and the streets below. “Do you not see?”

He saw. The ride to Argos had given him a direct line of sight to how far Menelaus’ influence extended. Everywhere he turned, Menelaus’ standard waved in the distance, a marker of the high lord’s claim. 

“We can’t do anything about public perception, not now. The people love him. But when they call for the march to Ilium, you _must_ be ready to send your troops.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“She said her first words.” 

He had been reluctant to break the silence, his voice echoing throughout the courtyard, no matter how quietly he spoke. The light from the hearth flickered over Helenus’ figure, casting shadows over him until he looked no different than a statue of wax, the contrast between light and dark emphasizing his stiff posture. Helenus started, looking around.

“Hector,” he breathed. He gave a small smile, but it was drained. His eyes were like two dark orbs, the light having gone out of them long ago. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t come to see you?”

“Sometimes I - I wish -” Helenus’ smile faltered. “I wish you wouldn’t.” 

Hector looked at the ground, at their feet. “You could come and see me.” 

A suggestion, barely voiced, for he knew it would never come to pass. 

“Polydorus says you are doing well.”

“You speak to him?” He was surprised. If anything, he didn’t think the strain would be mended between them. 

“I’ve treated him horribly the past few years.” Helenus’ mouth turned downwards, unhappy. “He shouldn’t want anything to do with me.” 

“He loves you,” Hector objected. 

Helenus was silent for a moment, staring at Hector like he was drinking in the sight. 

“Don’t go.”

Hector frowned, a tight feeling entering his chest. “What?” 

“When they march on Ilium … you’re planning on joining them, aren’t you.” 

How did Helenus know? Not even Polydorus knew. No one did. 

“I have to.” 

Helenus started to shake his head, a pained look on his face. “The priesthood has taken everything from me. Not you, too.” 

He’d crossed the space between them, drawing him close until their foreheads were touching.   
“I am not going anywhere. Who else is going to bring you news of Eirene? I don’t care how long I have to wait. I will do it until you have the courage to see her.” 

“Eirene.” Helenus smiled. “Little bird with a broken wing.” 

_They had been children. The youngest brother, in a panic, having found a baby bird in the brush behind the house. “It’s dead,” he sobbed._

_“It’s not,” his older brother said. “It’s just a broken wing, see? We’ll fix it right up and it will fly again.” And so they did. In ten days, the little creature was healed._

_“But I don’t want her to fly away,” the youngest brother said, his features upset._

_“She is Eirene and I am Helenus. We belong together.”_

_“And that you are, Helenus,” the older brother said. “But you can’t clip her wings. It is time for her to go. Perhaps one day she’ll fly back and remember you.”_

_The youngest brother hung his head, the little bird in his cupped palms. “Fly free, Eirene,” he whispered. “May we meet again.”_

“Tell me two things about her,” Helenus whispered, his eyelashes dark and wet against his cheek. “One for every year.”

“She likes to sing before she goes to sleep,” Hector murmured, arms grasping Helenus tight. “She doesn’t know the words yet, but she knows the melodies. Every one.” 

“Our mother’s?” Helenus asked. 

Hector nodded. A slow tear escaped down Helenus’ cheek, and fell onto the line of his collar. 

“And another?” 

“She picks up lemons from the ground and bites into them. We try to stop her, but … I suppose that lesson isn’t learned yet.” 

Helenus chuckled, the sound thick, and for a second his eyes had lit up again, filled with the life that had been there in that boy, so long ago. 

“I will tell you the third next year,” Hector said. “And the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was gazing at the empty trunk again. Outside, Argos’ flags were waving, the signal for war. His own, emblem of his house, high above them all. 

“You never told me.” 

Patroclus, behind him, voice stiff. He turned, one gaze meeting another. Empty corridors. Silent rooms. Perhaps this was the first time he had an image of what Patroclus saw. 

He went to him, footsteps sounding on the tiled floor. 

“No,” Patroclus said, putting up a hand. He was furious. And more indistinctly, hurt. 

“Patroclus,” he said. There was no removing the helplessness he felt, but in that moment, his resolve was firm. “It is what I have to do.” 

“That isn’t _true_ ,” Patroclus rebuked. “You _know_ it isn’t.” 

“Why not? Has nothing changed, since I became high lord?”

“High lords send men into battle. They don’t sacrifice their own lives.” 

“Then I don’t deserve the seat,” Hector bit back. He watched as Patroclus’ eyes widened in disbelief.   
“What kind of leader would I be, to stand back and send men to their death? They deserve someone who will take up the shield beside them.”

Patroclus had fallen silent, staring at Hector as though seeing something for the first time.   
“You have already given them everything,” he said, voice soft this time. “We both have.” 

“My life is not my own, Patroclus.” He _needed_ him to understand this. “It hasn’t been, ever since I swore the oath.” 

They were left looking at each other, neither one willing to break away. Then Patroclus turned on his heels and left.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wind through his hair did little to calm the raging storm inside him. How could Patroclus understand? How could anyone? It was the same thing that rooted his feet to the ground, the minute he’d reached adulthood and could take off wherever he wanted. It was the cry in his heart that had compelled him to stay, never leaving his loved ones behind. It had always been a part of him. 

Perhaps he was an imperfect man. Perhaps he had never been meant to hold power over others. But he was not a man to forget his promises. On that day, in Argos, he had sworn allegiance, to the state, and to his people. He had accepted the mantle knowing it was someone else’s vision, but he would do it on his own terms. It was the only way he could.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was gone all day, and all night. At last his horse tired of the ride, and having pity for the beast, he made his way back home. A week until he left for Ilium. These days were not to be wasted. 

The house was quiet when he returned, the servants having retired for the night. He paused when he reached Eirene’s door, listening for the sounds of sleep. No movement, no sign of stirring. 

Outside their bedroom he leaned against the wall, sighing as he thought of the things he would say. Nothing, he thought. There was nothing, that could encompass the things he desperately wanted Patroclus to know about him, the parts he had never shown anyone. Only a faint ache in his chest, two people and a chasm between them. If he could reach out, and grasp the other’s hand. Perhaps he would fall. But he wouldn’t know until he tried. 

Patroclus was sitting on the bed, waiting for him. It was hard meeting his eyes. Harder than he’d ever known. They didn’t speak, not until the silence began to drag, so dense it could be cut with a knife. 

“Nothing can change your mind?” Patroclus asked, all of that fury gone. His eyes were fixed on Hector, all his hope, and his desperation, reflected inside. 

He shook his head, moved up to Patroclus and pulled him into his arms. Their language had never been about the words. The pauses and breaks, between clever lines on the stage. The moments of stillness, at the end of a scene, when the audience waited for the lights to go out. This was how their bridge was built. He understood that, now. 

He kissed the side of Patroclus' head, kissed his ear, and the soft plain of his cheek. His heart beat ever louder, until it must have filled the room, filled the darkness between them. 

Patroclus was starting to shake a little, in his hands, fingernails digging into his palms until red crescents marked the skin. Hector realized he was fighting back tears.

“Don’t you ever cry for me,” he said, lifting Patroclus’ chin so they were eye to eye. 

“You can hate me, and spurn me, and never forgive me. But your tears? Never.”

“I couldn’t hate you even if I wanted to,” Patroclus replied, and buried his face in Hector’s chest.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If rooms had no windows, he thought, gazing up at the ceiling, Patroclus half-asleep in his arms. Then they wouldn’t know when the days passed, just the two of them in the dark together. If time could stand still. 

Give us a moment, he thought, to the silent ones listening. If they listened at all. 

Patroclus shifted and propped himself up, looking down at Hector. He moved his hand to brush the stray curls away. 

“Can’t sleep either?” 

A shake of the head. A small smile then, to lighten the air. These days were not to be wasted. 

Patroclus took his hand, linking their fingers together. 

“Time to test the truth of your powers,” Hector remarked, hoping it would coax out a laugh.   
“What do the lines say?”

Patroclus shot him a look, and it was back. His usual assured self.   
“Cheating,” he replied. “No man can know his fate before the battle.” 

“Make something up for me,” Hector replied, like he had done all those nights ago. 

Patroclus traced his finger over the palm, lips pursed as though in deep thought. His gaze flickered up, a small crease at the side of his mouth.  
“Those two lines that meet in the middle? It’s _definitely_ indigestion.” 

“I want my money back.” He laughed, unable to stop himself, and ran his fingers over Patroclus’ face. The sound died down when Patroclus took his hand, and pressed his lips to it, moved it to his cheek and held it there. 

A sharp ache had begun, deep in his chest, into his gut. 

“Sometimes, Patroclus,” he started. His heart was racing. “Sometimes, when I look at you -” he paused, the statement lost to him.   
“I can’t think.”

“Don’t think,” Patroclus said, and pulled him close, claiming his lips. “Just make love to me.” 

If time could stand still.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hadn’t thought to set foot in the house again, the Blue Quarters so distant and forgotten. 

His feet stepped over marble, he used to count the tiles. Blue, and white. Blue, and white. He’d never been able to make out the faded mosaics but now they gleamed, clear and striking. 

“Dei?” he called. “Polydorus?” 

He hadn’t understood what was so important that they couldn’t send a message. Things were hectic in the garrison now, the troops training diligently day after day. 

The air was stale, a lingering trail he couldn’t quite fathom. He followed it, into the private chambers, where their bedrooms were. 

“Polydorus?” He could make out his brother now, crouched on the floor, in a cold sweat. 

“Are you sick?” He frowned, going over to Polydorus, who was white as a sheet and trembling. 

“Gods, what’s happened?” He looked up at Deiphobus, in the corner. “Did you send for a physician?”

Polydorus gripped Hector’s arm, and opened his mouth, but no speech would escape. “He …” his face was crumpled, lips trembling.

“What is it?” 

Polydorus leaned over and retched into a bucket, the sound cutting. He started to sob, streams of tears running down his face, until he couldn’t speak at all. 

Hector leaned back in alarm, watching the scene wordlessly. 

“He - he -” 

He turned to Deiphobus for help. The other brother had his arms crossed, not looking at Polydorus. 

“By Io, what the fuck is going on?!” Hector demanded. He gazed at Deiphobus pleadingly.   
“Someone tell me, please.”

Polydorus had started to gasp in deep, shuddering breaths, not able to stop even when Hector rubbed his back soothingly. 

“Helenus,” Deiphobus whispered, and closed his eyes.   
“He killed himself, Hector.” And he turned his face away, leaning it against the wall so they couldn’t see him cry. 

The world was spinning. The world … his little brother. 

He sank onto the floor, forgetting that he still had an arm around Polydorus. _His_ brother. 

The gods had listened to him, he thought. The room didn’t move, the hours didn’t pass. And their merciless eyes, watching, always watching. 

_I will tell you the third. And the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth._

His vision blurred. 

Little bird, fly far and free.   
Helenus, and his broken wings.


	16. Chapter 16

He left at dawn. 

In the hours before, they had lain in the dark. He’d kept his eyes closed, even though he was awake, and opened them to find Patroclus watching him. The whites of his eyes, against the pitch black, as he lay on his side, unspeaking. Blue, he thought, watching the way the morning twilight played on Patroclus’ skin, every dip and groove over his form, a being from the world of dreams. 

And then Patroclus would blink, and he was back again. 

Precious hours, and all they had learned of each other, only to be learned again. He didn’t dare to breathe, to speak. Perhaps he was drowning in still air. 

Face to face, looking at each other, not moving, or touching; if only to preserve whatever it was that held those moments together.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He sat quietly, the tiled floor and bare walls greeting him. Time and time again, he’d gone to war, yet this time the numbness overshadowed whatever else it was that lay beneath. The hurt in him had ebbed, until he felt nothing but a vast calmness, an emptiness, that had been there since his brother’s death. Was there any coming back from this? He shook his head. Some part of him had crumbled away, leaving dust, the fragments too small, too fragile, to be pieced together again. 

“Hector?” He looked up at the sound of Patroclus’ voice. Leaning against the doorway, never in a hurry. 

Patroclus, he thought. He’d never stopped to think of what that name meant to him. And now it held him together, would hold him until he reached the gates of Ilium. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring, until Patroclus came and took his hand.  
“Will you come with me?” he asked. He led him away, out the door, and through the halls. 

When they reached the armory, he paused. In the middle of the room, over his suit of armor, was a helm. It stood out against the rest, gleaming bright, its horsehair plume tall and magnificent. He could see their reflections in the bronze, his face and Patroclus’. 

“I had it made for you,” Patroclus said, even though his gaze was weary. 

He knew what Patroclus was saying to him, even when the sentence never came. It made his insides ache, however much he had suppressed it these past few days. 

He stood in silence as Patroclus helped him into his armor, tightening each strap, until he was fully clad. 

Patroclus’ hands were shaking as he fastened on the sword belt, and he paused, leaning his forehead against Hector’s shoulder and closing his eyes. They stayed like that, the air thick between them.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered, voice getting lost. 

Something twisted inside him then. He turned, their bodies an inch apart, until he could hear nothing but the rhythm of Patroclus’ breathing. 

“Loyalty goes both ways. I have sworn myself to them, just as they have to me. Each man for the other, no matter what happens.” 

Patroclus wasn’t looking at him, eyes fixed on the floor; he cupped a hand around his face, cradling the jaw. 

“Do you know where I learned it from?” 

Patroclus’ eyebrows drew together, attention captured. 

“You.” 

And there it was, that gaze beginning to waver, drawing something raw, and sharp, and lasting. Perhaps that feeling would keep him alive, he thought. 

And he couldn’t speak anymore, only keep his eyes closed, to memorize Patroclus at his side, until they could see each other again.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There had been no one to pour libations for him, not in past days. This time, he stood in full armor, shield on his arm. The red dripped over it, red as blood, and he made himself take in the sight, no matter the scent of wine that filled the air. 

Patroclus was wordless as he poured, the prayers to Danaos and Io alike, forgotten. 

Some people said it was always springtime in Simoeis. And indeed, the fields could not have been greener, his horse’s hooves stepping onto the soft grass, as he led it away. 

He’d given Eirene kisses.  
He’d watched her eyes, blinking up at him, and he wondered how much of his love she would remember, in the days he was gone.  
She was waving at him, from the doorway, and he couldn’t look. 

He left at dawn, with a broken heart.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“To me!” he yelled, even as his voice was lost through the din, the clash of sword and spear, the cries of men on the field. Somewhere in the frenzy his horse had been injured, and he stood among the others now, his shield covering his face to avoid the flurry of arrows from the Achaeans’ archers. 

He searched the masses for familiar faces, rounding out the men. To have any hope against the Achaeans, they had to form a wall, shield against shield, until the storm of metal could reach them no more. 

Next to him, an arrow pierced the throat of a fellow Argive, the blood splattering against him as he narrowly avoided the falling man. He kept his eyes open, making sure he didn’t trip over the bodies. 

He counted his men, even as the next wave of Achaeans approached, cutting down the Argives on the front lines, their red and black helms a nightmare in the distance. “Shields together!” he screamed, again and again, until each man was in formation, heads low as they locked into the phalanx. 

Even when the first Achaean reached them, they were protected from the onslaught, the enemy’s attacks futile against a wall of strength. So much depended on the front lines, where General Deucalion fought, killing Achaeans one by one, trampling them.

The numbers were close. Day by day their dead had piled high, and on the Achaean side, not any better. The Achaeans did not have their skill at defense, but the warriors they had were mighty. If it ever came down to a show of skill, man against man, sword against sword, they would lose, slowly and surely. 

But what they lacked in strength, their generals made up for in cunning. Nearly three weeks on the borders of Ilium, and they endured, flags waving high.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“They _will_ try to attack the camp,” General Idomeneus insisted. “We are a sitting duck as far as they are concerned.” 

“Why do you think I asked to increase the men on night watch?” General Deucalion posed. 

It was tense these days, ever since they had been forced to restrict the men’s rations. If it wasn’t the battlefield that killed them, it would be hunger. The generals had decades of experience on how to keep the men well-fed and equipped to fight, but this was a close call. 

Outside, all around, the sounds of the army’s activity could be heard. Soldiers making repairs to their armor, sharpening weapons, talking. How quickly it had gained a sense of normalcy, everyday life in the army’s campsite.  
\-------------------------------

“You on night watch too?” 

He had taken his place beside Sarpedon, outside the tents, their eyes never leaving the trees and trenches, where Achaean soldiers could be hiding if they launched a sneak attack. 

His cousin nodded, one hand at his collar, where he was fingering a small object hung around his neck. He’d felt a dash of sympathy when he learned Sarpedon had been recruited to join the ranks in Ilium. Not so long ago when he’d been at his cousin’s wedding. 

It was almost a beautiful night, just like the nights he’d spent on his pilgrimage, under the stars, the Temple in Holy Ilium not so far away. 

“Tomorrow, we break away from the others and make camp in the east. The Achaeans will not have a direct line of sight to us.” 

Hector made a sound of acknowledgment. “General Deucalion’s idea?” 

Deucalion had the mind of a hawk. Ever roaming, covering all of their bases. If their camp was ever attacked, a separate unit unknown to the Achaeans would be able to send reinforcements. Patroclus would have liked the man, he thought.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They made camp along the riverbank, the heat of the open sky coming down on them full-force. In the distance was a village, separated only by a low fence. 

“No one said there were civilians here,” Hector muttered, eyeing the flat-roofed houses, no sign of activity he could see. 

“I’ll make sure to give the order that they are left alone,” Sarpedon replied. 

He didn’t know if it would be enough. But the days passed, and they avoided each other, both sides staying put where they were. Even so, he found his gaze wandering ever so often, catching sight of every tiny movement. The villagers, coming around to the far side of the river to collect water. Little children playing, only to be pulled away and led inside by their parents.

He imagined Patroclus next to him, propped up on a few pillows, trying not to fall asleep as he described the ways of these people. At night he lay in his pallet, and recalled the words. Their beliefs, their traditions, and their history. The way they spoke, and laughed, and loved. There was more to a people than their faceless cries on the battlefield, and he took a long, hard look.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They could smell the smoke from this far away. Shouts and orders, as they rushed out of their tents, armor hastily put on. The Achaeans had sent a force by cover of night, killing the sentries and laying waste to the main camp. 

In those close quarters, it was noise and confusion. He stuck close to his men, always counting, yelling so his voice could reach their ears. As several tents crashed and burned, his ears rang, wiping the sweat from his eyes as they avoided falling beams, senses on alert for the enemy. 

Tricky, the Achaeans were. But General Deucalion was trickier still. 

“Let them go,” he said, watching the stragglers fleeing back to their camp. There was a glint in his eye, and Hector followed his gaze all the way back to the ones they had managed to catch. Stripped of their armor, both the dead and the living. In the distance, brave Argives had sacrificed themselves, running straight into the Achaean camp in disguise. 

The Achaeans would discover them soon enough. But before they did, the Argive soldiers had a slim window of time, where they could wreak havoc, more dastardly than the Achaeans had done to their camp. 

Hector studied the general. “How many Achaeans can be killed in such a short time? Is it even worth it?”

Deucalion smiled. 

His skin startled to prickle, realization dawning. The Achaeans were well-known for setting up camp in strategic locations. Since this was their territory, they would know how to keep their soldiers sustained. 

“Their water.” 

Across the field, in the Achaean campsite, Deucalion’s men were already poisoning the well. How many Achaeans, indeed.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At night, he could hear the mourning cries of their enemies, the names of the lost howled into the air. All was silent on the Argive side, the men sitting tense, fires put out to honor the dead. Deucalion might have been ruthless, but even he would not encourage celebration in a time like this. 

“They will keep sending men,” he said. “And we will keep killing them.” His gaze was thoughtful as he said it. For men like Deucalion, it was just another problem to be solved. 

“Until?” Hector questioned. They could kill as many Achaeans as they wanted, but the Myrmidons would not give them the city. 

“Until they’ve had enough.” Deucalion looked at him. Some battles were like a hunt, the general had said once. If they did not meet head-on in the battlefield, then the enemy had to be drawn out. He could see Deucalion’s plan now, clearly laid out like one of the maps in the tent. All these weeks, and no sign of the Myrmidon Warlord. He would not come out unless they gave him a reason.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was early, and he’d woken up with a start, the feeling of having lost something driving him into a panic. The smell of the woodsmoke was going to his head, and he scrambled around his tent, overturning his pallet and rifling through his pack. He’d had to put his horse down the day before. There was no recovering from those injuries, and at last, he’d put the poor beast out of its misery. 

He’d tossed and turned for hours, trying to block out the images. When he’d woken up, he’d grabbed at his chest, inside his clothes, searching. 

It was gone. 

Eirene’s little straw doll, that she’d dropped when they were saying goodbye. He’d picked it up, meaning to give it back to her. He’d reached the end of the trail, the estate a smudge in the distance behind him, when he’d realized it was still in his hand. 

He twisted his hands in his hair when he couldn’t find it. It was gone, he thought, and he had to stop and take a breath. Every day they were further out of his reach. He pictured their faces, but stopped himself, because it made something in him burn, like being cut open. 

He went outside and sat by his tent, trying to calm himself, tears threatening to give way. 

A movement caught his eye, as he was lost in his thoughts, a dash of color right in front of him. Squinting, he leaned forward. Over by the fence was a low gap, and someone was crouched by it. A child. A curious little girl, who had crept closer to get a look at the soldiers, perhaps on a dare. 

They stared at each other. He saw the fear plain in her eyes, at having been discovered, even at this hour. The Achaeans, a terrible sight as they ran forwards on the battlefield. But here, across from the village, they were not the monsters. 

He was. 

His eyes would not leave her. She had curly brown hair, and big dark eyes. And in her hands, she clutched his daughter’s toy. He had dropped it, somehow, and she had found it. Neither of them moved, each waiting for what the other would do. 

And then he gave a slow nod, hoping it didn’t startle her. She was gone in an instant, running off towards the village, so fast he couldn’t make her out anymore.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From that day on, the villagers were not afraid to come by the riverbank. They never came too close to the fence, but he could hear them, their voices and chatter, some washing their clothes, others collecting water. He saw the girl again once or twice, among other children. It made him smile a little, the mundane activities of daily life being carried out as always, even here. Life never stopped. Even among all the deaths, the blood, the suffering. 

Village wives continued to sing work songs, children continued to play. It brought the soldiers some semblance of comfort, looking over the fence to watch the activity. A distraction, from the brutality they faced every day.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Much in war was about the waiting. He had learned this, in every battle, and here they were again, awaiting their moment to strike. 

A small unit of them had been sent out to destroy the Achaeans’ food supplies, and now laid low in the trench they had dug, away from enemy eyes, where they could watch when the fires were put out. 

“They are going to be well-guarded,” Hector cautioned, listening for any sound, and shushing the men when he did. 

Next to him, Sarpedon drew out his wife’s ring, that he wore around his neck, and kissed it. “We will not fail,” he muttered. 

Hours passed, until he gave the signal, each soldier slowly crawling out of the trench, on their bellies, blending into the shadows. They were covered in sweat, trying not to breathe too loudly, heavy armor traded in for lighter leathers, so as not to be heard. It was agony, moving over the rocky ground this way, but Deucalion had never claimed his plan was easily executed. 

The Achaeans had to be rationing their water strictly, after the well had been poisoned, and now was the next step. They were going to cut off every resource, tire them out, sending Achaean soldiers to the grave until they were forced to call on the Myrmidons in the city. 

They crept towards the edge of the campsite, taking care to time it carefully. It would be no use to sneak into the food stores when day broke, the light making it easy for the Achaeans to spot them. He made the signal for them to stop, taking in their surroundings, gauging the positions of each of the sentries. 

Two to one, he signaled, so the men knew to stick to their partners, watching each other’s backs. Four sentries for each pair, and they would be killed swiftly, before they could sound the alarm. One of them would race into the food stores, setting fire to the grains, before the Achaeans had a chance to stop them.  
\---

He could hear quiet voices, feet stamping into the ground. Sarpedon was already nodding when he beckoned towards the first group of sentries. They kept themselves hidden, using the shadows cast by the tents to conceal themselves in plain sight, their steps light against the ground. 

They reached the first set of men, drew their knives. 

The Achaeans were speaking in their language, and he could pick up a few words. He’d heard something similar from the villagers, although they spoke a different dialect. Easy conversation, he thought, and grabbed the man in front of him, covering his mouth and slitting his throat. 

Once one was down, the others’ attention would be drawn, and the slashing of blades was all that broke the silence, piercing skin, driven into the soft organs beneath. 

Afterwards, they dragged the bodies away, mouths clamped shut. The way was clear, and they had a direct path out of the camp when it was time to run. 

They had planned this out to the smallest detail, Hector’s soldiers knowing to stand on watch without being told. While they had been busy killing the sentries, one of them had sneaked into the food stores and lit it on fire. It was spreading far and fast, the heat slowly consuming precious supplies. 

There lay their toughest job for the night. Getting out of there alive. 

Already, Achaeans in the camp were shouting, having smelled the smoke, and seen the flames leaping up from the roof. It had become too bright to stay hidden for long, the orange glow of the fire blaring into their faces. 

“Regroup!” Hector yelled, repeating the names in his mind as each of his men ran towards him. They caught the first line of Achaeans as they ran out, and then it was a clash of steel, ringing out around them. The Achaeans kept coming. 

He parried with his sword, moved to dodge his opponent’s blow, slashed wide to drive the man back. All the while, his eyes roamed for the weak link in the Achaean’s armor, Patroclus’ voice in his ear, whispering, whispering. All he needed was a chance. The split of a second, and the man would be dead, no matter how heavily he was armed, how superior his weapons were. He saw it, even as chaos broke out around him. A small gap in the side, where the breastplate was fastened. 

He crouched low, making for the enemy’s legs, over the unprotected calves. The Achaean anticipated his attack, and as he moved to meet him, he drove his sword into the weak spot, hearing a grunt as the man keeled over. 

“Hector,” Sarpedon gasped, and rushed over to him. “We have to go now!” 

The fire was raging, smoke towering in a black column against the lightening sky. 

“They surrounded the food stores and were trying to put out the fire. Pandarus locked himself in so they couldn’t save the supplies.” 

He glanced back in horror, one of his own men trapped inside the store, burning to death. There weren’t even screams, not any that could be heard over the Achaeans. He grabbed Sarpedon and yelled for the men again, and they fled, their energy drained from the fighting. 

All the way, the Achaeans pursued them, but they had all made it out, save for Pandarus. Weary legs carried them past the boundary line, through the trees, where their horses awaited them. 

“Quick!” Hector ordered, grabbing the reins of Sarpedon’s horse and pushing his cousin up. He clambered on behind him, beckoning for the other men to go first. 

Sarpedon gave a little wheeze and nearly fell off the horse. “Fuck,” he mumbled, teeth gritted. “Hector, you have to drive the reins.” 

He frowned, but they quickly switched positions, the Achaeans behind them approaching ever closer. 

They rode back to the Argive camp, the men letting out cheers as they crossed the boundary line, disbelief at having made it out, intact. Sarpedon’s grip was slowly loosening around him. 

“Hold tight, Sar, we’re almost there,” Hector said, and drove the horse into the camp, until they were greeted by the voices of their own men. They dismounted, the horse being handed off to another soldier. Sarpedon collapsed to the ground, arms clutching his side. 

That was when Hector saw all the blood. It had gotten all over him, all over his arms and back where Sarpedon had been holding on to him.  
“Sarpedon,” he said. He wheeled around, searching frantically. 

“Medic! We need a medic, now!”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Over a decade fighting Achaeans, and they finally got me,” Sarpedon chuckled, through bloody teeth. 

Hector was silent next to his cot.  
“How?” he whispered. “How did it happen?” But he shook his head as soon as he said it. It didn’t matter. Even the best made mistakes, in the heat of the moment. 

“I saw you out there,” Sarpedon replied. He grinned, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Gods, Hector. If your brothers were here.” 

Thank the gods. Thank the gods that they were not. 

“If the men weren’t yours already, they are now.”

“I don’t think you should be talking so much,” Hector replied, and squeezed Sarpedon’s hand. “The medic here has to do his job, so you can get back to your wife.” 

Sarpedon smiled at the thought. “Polycaste,” he whispered. “We … I told her this was the last. I asked her … if she would still have me, even if I came home empty-handed.” 

Hector frowned. What sort of hopeless mission were they on, if even Sarpedon hadn’t believed they could capture the city?  
“And she said yes, of course.” 

“Best woman I’ve ever known,” Sarpedon nodded, looking pleased. 

“Excuse me,” the medic snapped. “I suppose you must have a death wish.” He glared at Hector. “Move aside, please.” 

“Good grief, Machaon,” Sarpedon complained. “You can stitch while we talk.” 

Hector rose. “I’m going to let him do his work, Sar. I’ll be right back.” 

Sarpedon nodded, waving him away.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He paced outside his tent, awaiting General Deucalion’s report. The men around him had dug a shallow grave on the edges of the campsite and were burying personal items in memory of Pandarus, the only one who hadn’t made it back. 

The rustle of leaves caught his attention, and he turned to find the little girl again, standing a few feet back from the fence, watching him warily. She pointed at the ground, where the gap in the fence was, and promptly ran away. 

He looked. There were two oranges in the groove of dirt under the fence, tied together with a green string. He bent and picked them up, the scent immediately wafting up to his nostrils. They made him think of the trees back home, fresh citrus in the air, Eirene picking up lemons from the ground and laughing when Patroclus reprimanded her. 

The little girl had known the doll had been his, and brought him a trade, he thought. He smiled.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a day later when the generals gathered in the tent, faces serious and absorbed. 

“The Myrmidons are ready to meet us,” General Deucalion announced. He gazed at each of them, a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. 

“This morning, the Warlord and his troops departed the city. If we defeat them, Ilium is ours.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Wartime violence.

“Aren’t I the one with all the late nights?” He was standing in the doorway, watching Patroclus at his desk, poring over document after document. There was something about seeing someone else in his study, his father’s study, that gave it new meaning. Gone were the days of creeping past this room, hoping no one was going to call him in for a reprimand. 

Instead, there was Patroclus. The lamplight lighting up the lines of his features.  
“Then you should know the work never ends,” Patroclus replied, smiling slightly. He’d taken over most of the responsibilities for Simoeis ever since Hector became a member of the council. 

Hector went over to him. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said. “Doesn’t bed sound enticing?” 

Patroclus chuckled, holding up the farmers’ seasonal reports. “Last one.”   
He let out a yelp when Hector scooped both arms under him and lifted him up from the chair. “ _What_ are you doing?!” 

“I’m going to bed. And I’m taking you with me,” Hector chimed, and carried him out of the study. 

“Put me down! I have to finish the -” Patroclus laughed, unable to help himself, the sound filling the hallways until he had to quiet down when they passed Eirene’s nursery. 

“You know I can’t sleep when I’m lonely,” Hector added, placing Patroclus on the bed and climbing up next to him. “And then I’ll be very grumpy tomorrow, then _you’ll_ be irritated, and -”

“You’ve become rather demanding since being on the council, haven’t you?” Patroclus asked. But he was smiling wide, an expression rather rare on him. They looked at each other, the open window letting in cool wind.

“You like it,” Hector replied, smiling smugly. It was late and he wasn’t even tired anymore. He just wanted to lay here, talking to Patroclus. Their days had been filled with outside demands, and some days these were the only times they had together.

Patroclus studied him, a look crossing his face, quiet and pensive. 

“What?” Hector asked. He could feel his heart beating a little faster, being looked at like that. 

Patroclus shook his head, smiling again, the expression never quite leaving his face. He smoothed Hector’s hair back from his head, a gesture that had become familiar. “Nothing.” 

There were a million things at the back of his mind. A million things to be considered, to be completed, to be anticipated for the coming future. But tonight, they were swept away; just him, and Patroclus, like it always was.  
\---

He opened his eyes, wondering what had shaken him from sleep. His forehead was covered in sweat; he shook the covers off to cool down, turning over to find Patroclus in the dark, to curl up around him. 

Then he remembered.

His heart clenched, just then. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself asleep, to be taken away again, to be taken back. It was no use. He was here, on the battleground, empty days turning into empty weeks. And there was no escaping nights like this, when he would wake up, aching for him.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky had turned a light grey when he left his tent, storm clouds on the horizon. No sun, he thought. When did sunlight become something to be missed? 

He washed his face at the river, started the fire for the morning meal. And went over to the groove under the fence, to check if the little girl had left anything for him. Sure enough, there were two red plums. It eased something in him, made him crack a smile. 

Always two. Did she assume he had someone to share it with? 

He took the plums and put them in his pocket, then left a small leather pouch in the groove. They had started an exchange, of sorts. Little things, knick knacks they wanted to show each other. Or food, at times.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Overhead, an eagle flew, its great wings spread out, casting a shadow over the waiting troops. A good omen, some would say. The past few months had been a waiting game, two players and the pieces on the board. 

It had all begun when the Myrmidons marched out of the city, a good two days’ journey before they reached the battlefield. General Deucalion had a good plan, to launch a surprise attack, catching them off guard. They rode, in perfect formation, each line of men ready to intercept the infamous army. 

An old trick, Deucalion had said. But one that the Myrmidons wouldn’t be expecting. Over the plains they rode, cavalry and infantry, until the sounds of the Myrmidons were heard. Once an insignificant tribe. It shouldn’t have been surprising how small their army was, but Hector could tell it unsettled the men. 

A group of fearsome warriors, their red and black shields bearing the faces of their gods, animal heads with humanoid features. They started pounding on their shields as soon as they caught sight of the Argives, the sound deafening, a powerful roar rising to the heavens. 

“Argives!” Deucalion cried. “Here is your _kleos_! Come and get it, for it waits for no man!” 

A resounding cheer went up, matching the power of the Myrmidons, the voices of both armies so terrible it must have made the hills tremble around them. Astride Sarpedon’s horse, Hector had felt the slow shiver up his spine. And then they’d launched themselves at full speed, the front lines meeting in the middle, adrenaline at its fullest, guiding their every movement.   
\---

It was a mistake, of course. The Myrmidons drove them back, slaughtering their men, those frightening shields the last thing seen before death claimed the soul. Hector had fought to control his horse, spear coming up in anticipation of the enemies coming his way. It had been a struggle not to trample his own men, their lines so quickly broken in the panic that had ensued. He could see Deucalion in the distance, screaming his troops into formation again. 

Their men were well-trained, enduring under Deucalion’s harsh drills day and night. And the Myrmidons destroyed them, one by one, line by line.   
\---

And so the months passed, after that first bitter defeat. From then on it was a battle of wits. They grew to learn the Myrmidons, their ways and their tactics. But General Deucalion had met his match in the Warlord Peleus. Every trick in the book, and it was always intercepted. They were up against a nation who had bred men for war, a people who sacrificed their kills to the gods. 

How could one survive against such a force? The mountain would never bow to the storm, Hector thought. Even in candlelight, inside his tent, he contemplated this. 

The infirmary had overflowed, and many soldiers had given up their own sleeping places for the wounded and dying. He slept under the stars, imagining a time when he would teach them to Eirene. Her little fingers, pointing at them, drawing lines to map out the constellations. One had to hold out hope that there was a future where that could happen. Anything, he thought. Anything to bring him a moment of peace, even as he could hear the dying breaths of his fellow soldier in the tent. 

He thought perhaps it would be good to die like this, in the cool air, the scent of the grass and dirt around him. One man, under nature’s mercy. If he was wounded in battle, he would ask the medics to bring his body outside. 

“Euryalus,” he whispered, at the gap in the tent. No sound. The soldier had died.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t want to go back inside, even after the medics had the tent smoked. He found himself in the infirmary instead, feet taking him to Sarpedon’s cot. His cousin was sound asleep, one arm over the bandage around his middle, but his eyes cracked open as soon as Hector’s shadow fell over him. 

“You’ve figured it out,” he smiled. “The plan to defeat the Myrmidons.” 

Hector shook his head, pulling the covers further over the man.   
“Even Deucalion is stumped. How could I be any different?” 

Sarpedon chuckled, the sound turning into a cough.   
“How could you? After all, did you not do it once, at Lyrnessus? Unless Deiphobus is a liar.” 

His chest tightened at the mention of Lyrnessus. Footsteps at his side, a pair of eyes meeting his every gaze. A fire burning in his soul, waking his mind, stirring his thoughts.   
“Deiphobus has a big mouth,” he replied, instead. 

It made Sarpedon smile, his features coming alive even against the paleness of his skin. “I wish he was here,” he said.   
“I know you want him safe, but …” He sighed. “What a warrior he is, Hector. If anyone deserves _kleos_ , it’s him.” 

He had fallen silent, images of his brother drifting to mind. And a secret, kept safe in his memory. Some things were not meant to be, he thought.   
“I know.”

Sarpedon closed his eyes then, fingers clutching at his wife’s ring.   
“I am sorry, you know.” 

Hector raised an eyebrow. 

“That I couldn’t love him the way he wanted.” 

They met each other’s eyes, and he squeezed Sarpedon’s hand.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“There is a way,” he said, inside the generals’ tent. He’d thought of it all night. Whatever they believed, the Myrmidons _were_ superior to them. Every plan they’d carried out so far had failed, and it was cause for a great deal of confusion. Why did they keep failing? What was it about the Myrmidons that was so different from the other Achaeans they had fought? 

Slowly, it had come to him. Anticipation. It was what the Warlord was most skilled at. Whatever they brought to the table, he was always one step ahead. An opponent could not be defeated if they knew your next move. 

“We’re going to beat him at his own game.” He went over to the map, General Idomeneus’ and Deucalion’s eyes on him, and picked out the red markers, symbolizing the Myrmidon warriors.   
“It has been quiet for the past few weeks.” 

“Calm skies, before the thunder comes,” Deucalion remarked. 

Hector nodded. “If we know one thing about the Warlord, it’s that he is not a man to waste time. All these months, and our resources are slowly depleting. Now is the time to strike.” 

“He will want to eliminate us quickly,” Deucalion agreed. 

“We are but a bother, these pesky Argives who won’t leave their city alone. I can imagine what they are thinking. Can you, Deucalion?” Idomeneus asked. 

“They think to stamp us like ants,” Deucalion suggested. 

“There are no scouts like theirs. Surely they already know about our second encampment,” Hector added, indicating his own campsite by the riverbank, that had been successfully concealed from the Achaeans before the Myrmidons arrived. 

“So they will attack that one, assuming we are unaware of their knowledge.” 

Hector raised a hand, moving the red markers on the map. “Here’s where we have been making a mistake.”

Deucalion leaned forward, frowning. “Explain.” 

“We assume they underestimate us. We think to surprise them, to set a trap in an empty camp. That, General, is how we fail.” 

“You think the Warlord would predict this?” 

“Look at our past attempts, General. Where did we go wrong? We never had the upper hand. He allowed us to think we did.” 

Deucalion rested his chin on his hands, deep in contemplation. “Then how do you propose we solve this?” 

Hector smiled, picking up the white markers representing Argos.   
“By sticking to what you know.” He paused.   
“How did we hurt the Achaeans so badly that they had to call for the Warlord’s aid? It was your plan, General. There was not a single base you did not cover, a single detail you did not think of.” 

He lifted one white marker, making sure Deucalion could see it.   
“We have been relying so much on trickery, that we forget the most important thing. Towers tend to crumble without a proper foundation.”   
Words he had never thought would become a lesson. A sideways look, a flash of a smile, from long ago. 

Slowly, he moved the markers so that the red surrounded the single white piece, letting it topple onto the ground. 

Deucalion and Idomeneus watched, intrigued. 

“Go on,” Deucalion said. 

And so he laid out their plan, a final attempt to win control of the war.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could count the breaths of the men next to him, smell the oil on their polished armor. They had spent the last few nights barricading their camp, building palisades around the boundary line in preparation for the Myrmidons’ arrival. The nervous energy around him had started ever since their scouts returned to warn them that the Myrmidons were near at hand. 

He gave the signal for them to keep themselves low to the ground, crouched behind the barricades, the camp deserted and silent. A drop of sweat fell from his forehead to the dirt below. If this failed, they would not live to return to Argos. Some chances were as slim as a crack in the glass - they had to take the leap, or be trapped inside forever. 

“The Myrmidons approach!” someone hissed, a deep rumbling in the earth beneath, the hooves of their horses pounding against the ground as they made their arrival at the Argives’ hidden camp. He could hear the chants of their warriors permeating the air, in that language, as barbarous as it was beautiful.

Out of the trees, the horses kicked up a cloud of mist, and it was like something out of the tales - a phantom army, conjured from nothingness. But these were not ghosts - they were men, men who bled, and they could be defeated. They could be outsmarted. 

This was the moment, he thought. Their Argive deceptions that had carried them so far - but even in deceit, there lay some semblance of truth. Here the Myrmidons were, an empty camp before them, awaiting an ambush. But the Argives were going to show them exactly what their tower was made out of. 

“Argives!” Hector screamed. “Unite, and face your enemy!”   
And the men cheered, their voices rising through the treetops, as they stepped out one by one and formed a line all around the camp, face to face with the waiting Myrmidons. 

It was silent. He could almost feel each minute passing from the prickling on his skin, the way those masked helmets stared at them, concealing the human faces beneath. And then in the Myrmidons’ cavalry line, the signal was given for attack. He could see the warrior, if he squinted hard enough. Their armor was so identical it was hard to tell which were the generals, if the Warlord was even among them. A mere flick of the arm, and the Myrmidons had taken position. 

On the Argive side, the men drew their swords, raising their spears high and thumping them onto the ground in the beginning of a war cry. They had trained for this moment. There wasn’t a single man who wasn’t prepared to give his life. 

The sound of the horn blared through their surroundings, and the Myrmidons closed in, the front line of infantry soldiers meeting them head-on. He didn’t think he would ever forget the sight. Myrmidons, rushing to kill them, swift as the river even in heavy armor. 

Their palisades held up, satisfyingly. The Myrmidons hacked, and tore, and leaned through with their weapons, hoping to catch at stray men. But the Argives’ tireless work had paid off, and it would be a while until the Myrmidons could get through. Meanwhile, their archers stood behind them on raised platforms and shot at the Myrmidons, bringing the first wave of infantry down, before the shields came up. 

It was chaos, but controlled and confined to a singular area. He could see several warriors sneaking around the edges of the camp, to their unguarded flanks. A slow curl of triumph made its way to his chest. They were accomplishing their goal. The Myrmidons were breaking out of formation, and that was how they were going to strike.   
\----

A sharp whistle signalled General Deucalion, and all around them, men started to emerge from the trees, leaping down and intercepting the Myrmidons who had strayed from their lines. The remaining men stayed among the branches and made a ruckus so loud, spear pounding against shield, the sound reverberating all around the site. 

The Myrmidons were starting to look around them in confusion. Where was the ambush? They had expected an empty camp, a trap, only to be met in a seemingly fair fight. The minute they heard the noise, they returned into position, the Warlord’s original plan in mind. 

There were reinforcements already on the move, to ensure the Myrmidons did not get surrounded. And that was their mistake.   
\----

“What do you do when you walk into a trap?” Hector had asked, earlier that day.   
“You keep your eyes on your surroundings. Every corner, every shadow, awaiting the enemy that jumps up behind you.” 

He’d walked around, overseeing the men as they dug holes in the ground, all around the camp, until it was to his satisfaction.   
“But perhaps you are so attuned to what’s around you, that you do not notice you have walked over a cliff.” 

They had concealed the ditches with a netting of leaves from the river. When their enemies fell, they would be entangled inside, ready for the kill.   
\----

As the reinforcements arrived, the trap did its job. Their horses toppled over, throwing men off their backs, on unsteady ground that gave way. The surface could be deceiving. But what was a fortified camp without protection from below? Up in the trees, the men threw spears, catching stray Myrmidons, too caught up in the confusion to hold their shields up in time. 

A well-hatched plan was one that overlooked no detail. Hector nodded at General Deucalion in the distance, even as they yelled for their units to stay in formation, not letting the Myrmidons’ frenzied movements distract them.   
\-----

It was the first of their victories. And certainly not the last. But on that day on the banks of Ilium, it could be said that they started something not so easily finished. And perhaps it wouldn’t be, not for the coming ages, when both sides finally rose up as equals. 

With victory came sacrifices, and many more laid down their lives in the pursuit. He gave up counting their dead, gave up trying to remember names and faces. It might have been an honorable thing, once, to fight by his comrades and know their names. Now his insides quaked when he tried to picture the faces, a numbness from seeing so many fall. 

The Achaeans howled songs of mourning. The Argives stayed silent, not a word breathed in the night.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were like distant relatives, sometimes. Those red and black shields became a familiar sight, and he would nod to acknowledge them, as if to say, “Hello, old friend.” 

The battle dragged on, and he had memorized every single Myrmidon rank and file, taught it to his men, their combat techniques drilled into every soldier’s head. Funny how you could come to know someone without meeting them at all. He thought of this as he scanned the ranks, eyes always open for the Warlord. Whoever this man was, he did not distinguish himself from the other warriors. 

So different from the Argives, whose generals could be spotted yards away with their brightly colored sashes. 

“We will bait them with a false exit,” General Deucalion had said, moving the markers on the map to make his point. “As their warriors give chase, we will attack their flanks, forcing them to rein in their horses.”

When they met on the battlefield, the wheels would start to turn in Deucalion’s head. There was no one who could match his expertise. Their army had improved, but the Myrmidons were still better fighters. They had to think beyond the limits to achieve their goals. 

And so here they were, the Myrmidons giving chase to the Argives who had started fleeing, breaking ranks and creating an opening for a targeted attack on the sidelines. It was almost a beauty, how swiftly Deucalion’s tactics fell into action. The general was a true master of the field, the men following his commands like ants to honey. 

Hector shielded his eyes, squinting out at the fighting. Wondering what the Warlord would do next. The remaining Myrmidons had realized what was happening, and regrouped, forming two lines on either side of the field. He frowned. They were locking their shields together, in a mock formation of the phalanx. They had studied the Argives’ ways, and were turning it on them. 

“Call it off!” he yelled, grabbing the soldier nearest to him. “It’s not going to work! Tell General Deucalion to call it off!” 

But already, the Argives had reached their enemies, a swarm of panic rising as they realized they wouldn’t be able to reach them behind those defensive walls. It had happened so quickly. 

“Spears!” he ordered. “To me!”   
There was no choice but to rely on the long-distance fighters, when a direct attack at close quarters had become futile. He searched the lines for an opening, searching, searching. The Myrmidons might have studied them, but they had not trained their whole lives in the phalanx. There was bound to be an imperfection. 

He saw it, as the soldiers continued to march, shields high up protecting their bodies. A weak link, in the lines, where one met the other. It made him think of Patroclus, for the flash of a second. _See where the two lines meet?_ He let it carry him, let the voice stir his spirit, raising his arm up high as he cast his spear. It flew, a perfect arc over the field, and straight into the throat of a Myrmidon warrior, effectively breaking their formation. 

A resounding cheer went up around the men at the sight. They drove their horses on, galloping at full speed towards the struggling enemy contingents, a storm of spears taking down the Myrmidons, until they were forced to regroup or scramble for their lives. 

When the fighting came to close quarters, it was easy to become lost in the throngs of men. He held the cavalry back, making sure the horses avoided their own. The Myrmidons fought like animals, fast and brutal, like the raging currents of the river. 

Even with their clever maneuvers, the Argives were soon weakened, men cut down by the second. He had never fought anyone like these Myrmidons. How swiftly they turned the tides, no matter what was thrown at them. 

The soldier next to him was thrown off his horse when a Myrmidon spear pierced the beast’s neck, a loud cry of pain, a crunch, even as the man avoided being crushed by his animal. His leg was broken at a strange angle, and Hector leapt off Sarpedon’s steed, moving to help the man up.

“Behind you!” the soldier cried, eyes widening in horror. 

The knife missed him by an inch, sweeping past his ear and burying itself in the ground at his feet. A throwing knife, one he’d seen buried in enough men to know its results. He yanked it out of the ground and turned to throw it, movements so precise it was like Danaos the Hero had possessed him for a brief second. 

He heard the scream as the knife met its target, a Myrmidon horse bucking in alarm as its rider struggled to stay astride it, his knee bleeding in rivulets down to his greaves. It was almost impressive, the way the rider kept control, even as he swayed to the side and his helmet fell off. 

A tumble of golden hair, a young face. Their eyes met for a split second, and then the trumpet call was sounded, his men sweeping him up in the crowd. 

“Retreat!” The cries came from all around. They were being overpowered by the Myrmidons, and had lost too many. It was going to be hard recovering from this, he thought. The troops could only take so much without morale reaching an all time low.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We are not going to win the city,” Deucalion growled, fist smashing against the table. The markers on the maps clattered around his hand at the force.   
“We have lost too much. Our supplies are running dry. Menelaus never anticipated how long this war would take.” 

It was quiet in the tent, every one of them trying to come to terms with the reality of it. Hector caught Idomeneus’ eye, seeing the general’s frustration plain on his face. 

“Then what the fuck have we been doing here all this while?” Idomeneus demanded. He stared Deucalion in the face.   
“ _Six months_. And the graves, Deucalion. Half of our camp site are _graves_.”

“They are too powerful.” Hector knew it must have taken everything for Deucalion to admit this.   
“We can keep fighting, until every last man has been killed or enslaved. Or we can admit defeat, and await the council’s next move.”   
He turned to Hector. “What say you, High Lord?” 

“Menelaus is not going to take this well,” Hector replied, slowly. He paused, leaning his head on his hand to consider it further.   
“Agamemnon was always right, wasn’t he?”

Deucalion nodded. “I do not pretend at knowing the council’s plans. But surely if we return now, it will give them time to determine the next steps. This war -” he sighed.   
“This bloody war was premature in the first place. If nothing else convinces Menelaus, surely _this_ will show him that the Myrmidons are unlike other enemies we have faced. It will take years. We will have to gather resources, recruit more men, and prepare for any outcome.”

“What do we tell our men?” Hector asked.   
“That they came here for an empty purpose? That their comrades died for nothing?” He closed his eyes.   
“The prisoners captured by the enemy?” 

Deucalion gave him a sober look.   
“This is the way of war. You will find soon enough … we soldiers are pieces on the board, for the ones that hold the real power. We always have been.” 

It roused something in him, those words. “Not tonight,” he said. 

Deucalion and Idomeneus looked at him in curiosity. 

“We will return to Argos with every last one of our men. The Myrmidons may kill us, but they will not enslave us.”

“That would be a suicide mission,” Idomeneus whispered. “We cannot sneak into their camp again. They know us.”

“Generals,” Hector said, looking both men in the eye with all the respect he could muster.   
“There is always a way.” 

Distant words came to him, chiming softly in his ears like a breeze. _In this game, we adapt, or we lose._

“But we must pray to the gods lest they damn us for hubris.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He remembered a time from childhood, playing hide and seek with his brothers, afraid of the tiniest movement that would lead to discovery. How strange, he thought, underneath the shroud, nose clenched against the stench of dead flesh. If he could will the men around him to tame the sound of their breaths. 

They had sneaked out here, in the middle of the night, and lain amongst dead Achaeans, awaiting the carts that would collect them in the morning. Perhaps it would be in vain. Sometimes, the dead were left out here for days, the crows pecking out their eyes, feeding on decaying guts. But if there was a chance … 

Curious that no one had invented this as a form of torture, he mused, eyes watering as he lay there, muscles stiff and sore. His skin brushed against the cold form of a Myrmidon corpse, and he had to suppress the shudder. 

That was when he heard footsteps, wheels running through the dirt, as the sky lightened and gave way to grey clouds. The Myrmidons had come. This was the tricky part. They were forced to lay slack, to give nothing away, as each body was lifted and piled onto the cart. 

He could hear the soldier next to him crying, as they lay among the pile of dead. If he thought of it too long, he felt like screaming.   
“Shut it,” he whispered. The crying stopped. 

His skin had turned clammy, the bile threatening to rise up in his throat, by the time they reached the Achaean camp. One by one, the bodies were tossed out to be burned. 

“Ready,” he whispered, feeling the cart creak as its load was lightened. 

They leapt out amongst startled cries, drawing the meager weapons they had managed to smuggle through. He could feel it again, that line between fear and numbness, cutting down each opponent until they had a clear way to the prisoners of war. 

They were always kept at the edge of the camp, where they could be easily disposed of when the harsh conditions proved too much. It was the same in every camp. He wished that knowledge didn’t come to him so easily. 

Not all of the prisoners made it out. It made him sick to think that they would fail, in a way. But the Myrmidons who tried to intercept them were killed. Their last attempt, their last hope. That morning, they fought like a storm, savage and merciless. Who were the monsters? Did anyone know?   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“They’ve had enough,” Deucalion said, when twilight had fallen, the first star coming out, alone in the sky. The general could not have looked more serious then, but he abruptly threw back his head and laughed.   
“They have had … enough.” 

Hector looked at him, thinking that expression would be branded in his memory forever. Utter defeat, and pride, and shame, and triumph. All in one look, a single gleam in the general’s eye. Was there anything more human? 

He placed a hand on Deucalion’s shoulder, for there was nothing left to say. 

“The Warlord requests parley, first thing in the morning. And then … we will go home.” 

His throat caught. _Home_. He hadn’t dared. Hadn’t dared to think of it, even when he knew they were returning empty-handed.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He closed his eyes as he breathed in the morning air. The sun. Finally, after all this while.   
It greeted him, turning the horizon a mesh of gold and orange. To live another day, meeting sights like this. The weight in his heart lifted just the slightest bit. 

Around him, the men were nervous and quiet, unable to keep still even as they were commanded into silence. Two sides, finally meeting after months of study in a ferocious match. 

The Warlord had wanted to see _him_ , the High Lord. Traditionally, the heralds negotiated the terms of parley. The fact that the Warlord came himself spoke volumes of what this war had done, the outcomes it had drawn for both nations. 

The flags came down and he approached, on Sarpedon’s horse, helm clutched at his side. He waited, as the sea of Myrmidons parted. His pulse raced, a mixture of trepidation and anxiety. That unseen force on the battlefield that he had looked for from the first. The man himself. 

A fine Achaean steed emerged from the Myrmidon side, stopping in a perfect parallel to his own position. The rider wore armor no different from the rest. So this was the infamous Warlord, an opponent unlike any other.

He inclined his head, pausing when the Warlord did the same. 

And then the man removed his visor, a stray lock of hair flying out in the wind. It caught the sunlight, like the golden wheat in Simoeis. 

He froze, staring back into familiar eyes, two light orbs in a perfect face. The warrior he had wounded on the battlefield. 

His gaze roamed over him, checking for any sign of the injury. But the warrior betrayed nothing, legs gripping his horse in a flawless equestrian form. 

“If it does not cause offense, I would like to know who it is I address,” he greeted. 

A glimmer of amusement in the eyes. 

“It most certainly does not.” The voice was deeper than he expected, but still young, far younger than he expected the Warlord to be.   
“You may call me Achilles.” 

He wracked his brain for the name. None came to mind. 

“Well met. I am Hector, son of Priam.” 

A small quirk of the lips. Those mannerisms. He had seen them before, mirrored in someone else. 

A shock went through him, then, the realization as clear as could be. 

“A pity your father could not be present.”   
He watched as a flash of surprise flickered onto those features. “Either way, the fight was a close one.” 

The Aristos Achaion was silent for a moment. Then, he inclined his head again.   
“It was.”   
They had proven themselves worthy opponents, and even in circumstances like this, there was no harm in acknowledgment. 

The Aristos Achaion tilted his head, studying Hector, those eyes boring straight through him.   
“Let us make this simple, then, Hector son of Priam.”   
He said the name like he was savoring it, syllables rolling over his tongue. His Argive was good, the accent giving it a pleasing lilt.   
“You will allow us to collect the rest of our dead in peace. Then, we will return the captives.”

Hector nodded. “It is reasonable.” 

“I am glad you agree.” 

“And how long until you chase us down and slaughter us?” 

The Aristos Achaion stared at him, seemingly caught off guard. A quick rise and fall of his chest showed that his surprise did not last for long. He let out a quiet laugh. 

Lions. Patroclus had been among lions. 

“Perhaps an oath, that we will not pursue. Will that satisfy you, High Lord?” 

He considered this. The Myrmidons were cunning bastards, but they were true to their word. All those nights staying up and listening to Patroclus’ stories had taught him that, at the very least. 

“It will.” 

He was about to turn to go, to give the sign to stand ready for receiving the captives, when the Aristos Achaion spoke again. 

“Men should know rare treasure when they have it.” 

Their gaze did not break. 

“It isn’t something to be had,” he replied, slowly. “But, I know.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There had never been a march back home like this. No victory songs, no hymns, no chants from the men. The Argives went on in silence, hearts weary from the lives that had been lost, the spirit of war extinguished in favor of mourning. Next to him, Sarpedon’s sword gleamed in the sun, laid to rest forever.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had crossed the borderline, and were on their way back to Argos, when the first traces of smoke made their way to him. At first, he thought he was imagining things. The remnants of previous attacks, Pandarus locking himself in the food stores. But it was all too real, and the other men were starting to notice, too. 

“What’s going on?” he demanded, reining in his horse and turning around. 

In the distance, the Achaean village was burning. Flames devouring the roofs, the walls, even the riverbank would be of no help. His eyes widened, taking it in, horror and dread rising up inside him. 

“Who … we have to go back!” he yelled, bringing his horse around. 

Who had stayed back to set fire to the village? When he found the men, he would -

“It’s too late, Hector,” Deucalion said, voice drained.   
“It will take us the rest of the day to reach them, and they will be nothing but ashes by then.” 

He wept, on the ride home. He wept, for the voices that were stifled, the villagers' songs lost to the wind. 

And for the little girl, burning in her village, Eirene’s doll swept up by the flames.


	18. Chapter 18

Was coming home like breathing again? That was what that feeling reminded him of, he thought. Every step, past Simoeis’ golden fields, and his head cleared. There was no removing the stone in his chest, sharp, jagged, grating at the sides; but he could forget it, just for a little while. 

When he saw the estate, he abandoned Sarpedon’s horse and ran. All at once, his feet were carrying him, light as air, and the world around him melted away. 

_He could see them_. He could see - 

A blur, dashing towards him, and at first he didn’t recognize her - but the eyes, and he knew it was her. She was in his arms, lifted into the air, and he could hear her calling him, although the sound seemed far away. 

What was that on his face? Tears, a smile? He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t recognize himself. His face hurt because he was grinning so wide, and his insides hurt because he had kept it hidden for so long, the yearning, and it was like taking a gulp of water too fast, an ocean perhaps …

Eirene’s face was pressed close to his; when had she grown freckles on her nose? He kissed them, held her back to look at her. He had missed so much. She was already too big for his arms, but he didn’t let go. He never wanted to let go again. 

He turned, searching. 

Their eyes found each other. 

Leaning against the doorway, never in a hurry. 

He walked towards the house, balancing Eirene on his hip. _Hello_ , his heart seemed to sing. 

“Well,” Patroclus said, a soft smile on his face. 

Gods. His hands were starting to tremble, just seeing him. He clenched them, not wanting to drop Eirene. 

He thought his feet had become rooted to the earth, but somehow they carried him inside, Eirene babbling all the way, her arms tight around him. And Patroclus’ eyes never left him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Penelope had let out a cry when she saw him, grabbing his face and kissing his cheeks. Taking Eirene with her, she called the staff to attention, the house at once a bustle of activity as they prepared to welcome their master home. 

It made him smile, seeing familiar faces, a sense of calm overtaking him. Patroclus took his hand, and he looked down at their linked fingers. Patroclus’, thin and elegant in his own. He stroked his thumb over the knuckles, and it was just the two of them alone together. He still hadn’t said a word.  
\---

He shed the layers of metal, not caring as he yanked off each strap, hating the feel of it still on him. He paused, shrugging off a gauntlet. Patroclus hadn’t removed his hand, the weight of it warm and consoling. He was so close, and still, not close enough. He leaned his head down, their noses bumping into each other. 

“Patroclus,” he whispered. 

The answering smile. Oh, that smile. He didn’t think there was any room inside him anymore, all the anger, all the sorrow, the relief. Was it happiness? Was this what he was feeling?

“You’re back,” Patroclus replied, softly. A rush of a second, and then he fell against him, taking him in, taking it all in. 

It came flooding back to him. The memories, every look, and smile, and touch - except it was here, and now. He didn’t have to hold on so tightly anymore. 

This was his. 

“I thought about you every day,” he blurted out.

“It was the only thing I -” and he had to stop, because he was running out of air. 

Patroclus’ fingers were on his lips, running over the skin.

“I lost it,” he frowned, taking Patroclus’ hands in his. 

“What did you lose, love?” 

“I took something of Eirene’s and I lost it. I’m sorry.” 

Patroclus was looking at him in confusion. Then he let out a short chuckle. “Oh, that?” He reached up and smoothed the hair back from Hector’s head. 

The sensation made his eyes fall shut. 

“It’s no worry at all.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the tears escaped. He wiped them away. “Sorry.” 

Patroclus was silent, staring up at him. Seeing. Seeing everything. 

“What are you sorry for, my love?” he whispered, hands on either side of Hector’s face, his touch gentle, and it was _too much_. 

He shook his head. He buried his face in Patroclus’ neck. The words were fading away now. There was no forgetting what had happened. There was no escaping. _Take me away_ , he wanted to say. 

If he could get lost in Patroclus’ embrace and know nothing else. But the world waited for him, even in the quiet moments. 

“I want it off,” he said, and pulled off his breastplate. He tore off each piece with a vengeance, now. Patroclus watched him for a minute, then nodded. 

“It comes off.” They stripped off his armor, the pieces of metal clanging against the ground.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The heat of the water felt good, steam rising from the bath, little flicks of the blade against his lathered face. 

“Look at that,” Patroclus murmured, handling the straight razor with ease.  
“It’s you again.” He grinned, eyes lighting up, moving to plant a kiss on the clean shaven jaw. 

“Wrong place,” Hector grumbled. 

“Forgive me,” Patroclus replied, taking his face and capturing his lips, a deep kiss, one that soothed him all the way to his tired soul.

He drew Patroclus towards him and kissed him again, and again, not letting them part even when Patroclus slipped out of his clothes and climbed into the bath with him. 

“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” He wanted to say it, but didn’t. It rang through his head, all he could think of, even when the water went cold, the traces of lovemaking washed away.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All was quiet in the stables, the smell of the hay and horses strong in the air. Someone had taken Sarpedon’s horse in. Deiphobus, he thought, seeing the way the saddle had been put away, the horse’s coat brushed meticulously. There was no other man who handled things with such respect, whether it was a horse’s saddle or a piece of armor that needed polishing. 

He found his brother in the garden, on the edge of that same fountain they had sat on. It seemed so long ago now. Sarpedon’s sword lay across his lap, its golden hilt catching the light. 

“Can I have it?” Deiphobus asked, voice soft. “Just for a little while.”  
His hand traced the scabbard, as though it would fall apart at any moment. 

Hector sighed and took a seat beside him. “You’ll return it to Polycaste?” 

It was a lot to ask. But Deiphobus nodded, expression distant. They didn’t say anything for a while. Eventually, he lifted a hand and placed it on Deiphobus’ head, the way he’d done when they were boys. He could feel his brother’s shoulders shaking. 

They’d always understood each other in a certain way. There were so many moments they had shared, in each other’s joy, each other’s sorrow, that nobody else could know but them. 

Deiphobus closed his eyes and placed a hand on his chest, as though holding on to a feeling from far away. 

And he knew, then. He felt it in himself, its rawness, its completeness.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t know what exactly it was that had made him jolt up from the bed, breath coming out in harsh pants. It was like someone had tied a string around his chest, constricting his lungs, and he struggled for air. He looked around him, the silence heavy on his skin. Someone was saying his name, hands grasping at his shoulders, but he barely heard it, barely felt anything. 

He leapt up, at once getting lost in the darkness, and his breathing got louder.  
He couldn’t _see_. He couldn’t do anything if he couldn’t see. His feet moved, driving him further into the dark. Some part of him knew where he was going, but it confused him, it was too quiet. His heart pounded in his chest, pulse racing, thrumming in his ears, and then he found the door, and threw it open. 

The moonlight fell over Eirene’s sleeping form, she was curled up under the covers in her bed. He stared at her, gazed around the room. Somehow the sight quieted the storm in him, eased the chilling fear that had taken ahold of his entire body. He didn’t know how he had gotten here.

“Hector?” Patroclus approached him warily, one hand reaching out, but not quite touching him. 

He glanced at Patroclus in confusion, then at Eirene. 

There must have been something in his expression, for Patroclus dropped his hesitation and came forward, putting his arms around him.  
“It’s alright,” he whispered, in Hector’s ear, stroking his back, the touch calming him.  
“Everything is alright.” 

He searched Patroclus’ face. “I don’t -” he started. He frowned. 

“You’re home. Nothing is going to happen, love,” Patroclus continued, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the sleeping child.  
“We’re together again.” 

They looked at Eirene, standing there until his feet started to ache, limbs heavy from exhaustion. 

“She got too big for her crib,” Patroclus said, leaning his head on Hector’s shoulder. Somehow he knew to keep talking, the sound of his voice breaking the illusion, chasing off the fear.  
“She asked me for stories about you. You know which one I told her?” 

“No,” he said, glancing at Patroclus in question. 

“The one about your brother, and the ships.”

He pursed his lips. 

“She thought you had gone on a ship, to see the world.”

He closed his eyes. “If only.” 

Patroclus tightened his hold on him.  
“Sometimes I found myself imagining it too. When the war kept on, I thought of you, someplace far away. An island, perhaps. It kept you safe, in my mind.”  
He stroked Hector’s cheek.  
“Silly, isn’t it?”

He almost said it, then. He could feel it on his lips, the weight of it. But he blinked, and it was gone. Instead, he took Patroclus’ wrist and pressed his mouth to it, wondering how long he could bear the burden of his own silence. 

“There was a little girl,” he whispered, against Patroclus’ skin.  
“I wish I knew what her name was.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d forgotten how perfect the weather could be over here. The sun was out and it felt good on his face. Her hair had grown so dark, he thought, studying Eirene as she chattered to him. He couldn’t understand what she said, sometimes, unless he listened hard enough. Patroclus always knew what she was saying, and it made him both sad and relieved; that he didn’t know her as well as he should, but there was someone who did. 

There was no replacing the months he had lost. But he was here now, and there was not a single minute he was willing to miss. She could walk and run, and she knew all the words to his mother’s songs, jumbled as they were in her child’s speech. _She’ll be riding on horseback soon_ , Deiphobus had said. And he was going to teach it to her. For now, though, she was content going into the stables, and helping to feed the horses. 

Stay little, he wanted to say, but shook it off, laughing at himself. How many times had his mother thought the same thing? She had told him once, what it was to watch children grow up. He’d just never thought it would be something he remembered, years later, his own child. 

He put her to bed at night, told her stories until she fell asleep. Those few minutes he stayed behind, when her breathing had evened out - they seemed to keep him rooted, at least for a little while. When he woke up in the middle of the night, he knew not to search for her. 

Patroclus was always awake at those times, not speaking, not holding him back. He didn’t know what passed between them in those moments, but they were like needle and thread. Slowly mending, one stitch at a time, until he felt he wouldn’t fall apart anymore. Some wounds took their time to close. And Patroclus waited.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I thought you were tired?” It had been a good day, and he didn’t want it to end. Patroclus was laying on his side, the pillows all around him. 

“I’m wide awake,” he replied, drawing closer, pulling the covers over them to drown out the lamplight. 

“Your eyes are closing.”

“Just resting them.” 

“Goodnight, love,” Patroclus chuckled, putting an arm around him. 

“No, don’t go to sleep yet.” His eyes flew open. 

“You are just like Eirene,” Patroclus chided, smirking. 

“I’m not tired, I swear. Keep talking to me.” 

“Oh? And what do you want to hear? Surely not the Myrmidons?”  
Patroclus hesitated, for a brief second, they hadn’t really broached the topic. But it had gotten easier. 

“Didn’t I tell you it would be your turn to recount their tales one day?”

“You did.” He stifled a yawn.  
He squinted at Patroclus, watching how the light made the edges of his hair turn red.  
“Tell me something about you I don’t know.” 

Patroclus raised an eyebrow. “Anything?”

He nodded. “Anything.” 

Patroclus pursed his lips, thinking. “You first,” he said, finally. 

He scratched his head, trying to remember.  
“My father used to keep a box of tobacco in his drawer. When I was little, I crept into his study, and replaced it with …” he winked. “Goat feed.” 

“I never knew you were so diabolical,” Patroclus remarked. 

“You know what, he never noticed. Or at least, he never found out which one of us did it. But it amused me, thinking of him in his study, trying to smoke a harmless handful of -” he laughed, that old joke filling his mind again. 

“Curious, isn’t it? The things that make us happy.”

“Curious indeed,” Patroclus replied softly, staring at him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Since their return from Ilium, Agamemnon’s troops had dominated the fortress, driving out Menelaus’ men. These were the soldiers who had fought alongside Hector, locked shields with him on the field, men he had shared a fire with. Sarpedon had predicted it; somewhere in the middle, he had earned their loyalty. 

He brought Patroclus with him to the fortress. If anything good had come out of the war, it was a bond with the troops, the very same thing that connected them all to Simoeis. The land had become home to so many; seeing the activity, the soldiers interacting with the locals, it lightened his spirit. 

But even that did not erase Menelaus’ influence.  
\---

“Get that out of my sight,” he ordered, eyeing the sanctuary to Tros at the garden wall. Menelaus might have spread his word to Simoeis and its people, but it was not going to reach Hector’s own home. 

A few servants came and carried the large statue away, glancing at him nervously. In truth, he didn’t know what bothered him about it the most. It was a symbol of his family’s personal anguish, but it was also much more than that. Over the months he had been gone, Tros had slowly become a representation of the holy war itself. 

Since his return, he had been forced to question everything. Perhaps it helped him, in a way. There was no moving forward if he did not understand what had happened, on the banks of Ilium. 

“Hector,” Patroclus said, coming up beside him. He watched the sanctuary being disassembled, uncertainly.  
“You cannot do this.” 

“This is our house,” Hector objected. “I will not have-” 

Patroclus placed a hand on his arm. “I know,” he replied, quietly.  
“But there are other people in this household. Ones who follow the priest-king’s faith.”  
He didn’t look like he wanted to speak any more on the subject, but he swallowed and looked Hector in the eye.  
“They have a right to worship as they please. Whatever our beliefs are, we cannot take theirs away. It is wrong. Look at me, Hector. Tell me you understand this.” 

He frowned. There was a churning in him, a slow anger, a resigned one. Patroclus was right. But it was hard to swallow, indeed. 

“ _This_ is wrong,” he replied, helplessly. Everything. Menelaus had managed to sully the original tale of Tros and the gods, made it into a weapon. Those burning roofs. The stench of smoke. Io have mercy, he thought. How could one stomach this? 

He looked at Patroclus, who insisted on letting the statue stay, regardless of what its image represented for his own people’s history. If a Danaan could do this, he could, too. 

“Eirene is _not_ going to be raised with the sect of Tros,” he said, firmly. They had discussed it, and in truth, he felt it would have been in accordance to Helenus’ wishes. 

“I agree,” Patroclus replied, smiling.  
“We will have to answer some hard questions, when the time comes. But Hector - we won’t be able to control it if she grows up and chooses it for herself. If her siblings do. You are prepared for that, aren’t you?” 

“Siblings?” He stared at Patroclus, who shrugged. 

“Wouldn’t it be good to have another child in these halls? How many do you see, on the estate?”

“We are not -” he started, stepping back a little when Patroclus looked at him intently.  
“We are not having another child.” 

A short silence passed.

“That’s it?” Patroclus questioned. “You won’t even consider it?” 

“It was never a question!” he exclaimed. 

“Why not?” 

Gods, he could be infuriating at times. He had forgotten how Patroclus got, at times like this. Calmly matching every one of his statements, especially on a topic he did not want to discuss. 

“We have Eirene,” he replied, teeth gritted. “Why is that not enough?” 

“Enough?” Patroclus let out a breath. “It is not about being enough, Hector. It’s about wanting a family.” 

“We _are_ a family.”

“Yes.” Patroclus went up to him, took his hands, expression softening.  
“Yes, because we’ve made one of our own. Look at what we’ve built together. Something far more precious than anything we set out to do. But -”  
He struggled, the first time Hector had seen him do so. 

“You said to me once, that we would build a legacy. Do you know what I realized, those nights I woke up without you beside me? What we have together is more than a fortress, more than a seat on the council. We could have a future, Hector. One that is free from everything else that has governed us.” 

He had fallen silent, Patroclus’ words rousing something deep within him. A long-held desire. Something he had been afraid to want. Was still afraid. Men who reached too far fell the longest. He could imagine himself falling. 

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “I can’t -”  
He couldn’t bear it. He had seen what happened, to good people, people who were only trying to live their lives among the chaos. The cruelty of war spared no one. He had nightmares, the burning village, and the girl whose name he didn’t know. The second before he opened his eyes, he saw Eirene’s face. And it chiseled away at him, night after night, until there was nothing left. 

“We can’t control what happens. We can’t control any of it. But we have a right to live the way that we choose." Patroclus' voice had turned pleading, fingers stroking his face.  
"I want that with _you_.” 

So much, in that expression, and he couldn’t look.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was grey outside, and he had decided that he hated cloudy weather. Even if it matched his mood. Patroclus was asleep, next to him, and he paused for a while, taking a long look. They hadn’t been speaking much. It hurt, to spend their days like this, but there was a tear in the fabric and he didn’t know how to mend it. 

He reached out, stroking Patroclus’ hair and placing his lips on his shoulder. Sometimes, he said the words, without sound, pressing them into Patroclus’ skin like they would be imprinted there.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------

Agamemnon had appointed a new general to replace Sarpedon at the stronghold. His cousin would be missed, but the men needed someone to oversee them when Hector wasn’t around. He and Patroclus had ridden out to the fortress, to greet the new general. 

Hector hadn’t seen Agamemnon since before the Battle of Ilium. The high lord had to be enjoying the backlash Menelaus was receiving from his plan’s failure. 

“High Lord Hector,” Agamemnon greeted. He glanced at Patroclus and nodded slightly.  
“I am pleased to see the fortress remains in good shape.” 

“I’m sure it must have been difficult, compensating for the numbers when we left for Ilium.” 

Agamemnon smiled, a real one this time. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”  
He beckoned towards his side. A little behind him, the new general approached on his steed. 

Hector felt Patroclus freeze up next to him. He squinted closer, watching the general remove his helmet. 

“We welcome you to Simoeis, General Sthenelus,” he managed to say, masking his surprise at the new arrival. After all, hadn’t Sthenelus joined Menelaus’ army? 

Sthenelus inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My thanks, High Lord Hector.” 

Hector glanced at Agamemnon, who was looking rather pleased with himself. Having a Danaan military leader at Simoeis, where Menelaus’ influence over the sect of Tros ran strong? It was no coincidence. The high lord was taking his own stance, in a way. And Sthenelus, not without ambition. There were few who were willing to give the title of general to a Danaan. A win-win situation for both parties.  
\--------------------------------------------------

Deiphobus couldn’t stop laughing when he heard the news. 

“It comes back to bite you in the ass, brother!” he roared, thumping a hand over his knee. 

Hector rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help a smile. It was good to see his brother’s spirits lifted.  
“I am sure he will be nothing but entirely professional.”

“Sthenelus? Oh, of course he will. One can expect nothing less from him.” Deiphobus paused, and started wheezing again.  
“But gods, that’s going to be uncomfortable. I look forward to seeing Patroclus’ face every time we visit the stronghold!” 

Hector paused. “Well …” 

Deiphobus looked up, mischief lighting up his eyes. He was the only one of the brothers who had inherited their father’s eyes, but on him, they were full of life. Nothing like the old man’s grave stare.  
“Don’t tell me he’s staying at the estate!” Deiphobus gave a mock gasp.  
“Oh, this is _too good_. I might move back here after all!” 

“Only because you think Sthenelus is _dreamy_ ,” Hector mocked.

“Well, he is. I’m not going to deny it,” Deiphobus shrugged.  
He raised an eyebrow. “Old Menoetius wasn’t going to let his son stay in the barracks, was he? What did Patroclus say?” 

Hector shrugged. 

Deiphobus peered at him. “Are you really having a fight because of his brother?”

“It’s not about that.” He sighed. “He wants … a different sort of future. To expand our family. And I told him no.” 

Deiphobus was quiet for a while.  
“So that isn’t what you want?” 

“It’s not about what I want,” Hector replied. He scowled, looking at his feet.

“Then what is it about?” 

He glanced at Deiphobus, and felt a pang in his chest. There had been many times when he’d thought he wouldn’t have survived without his brothers. They were a part of him, like the blood in his veins, the beating of his own heart. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Eirene to have what he’d always had. It wasn’t that at all. 

“You’re in love with him.” 

He stared at Deiphobus, unable to muster an answer. He bit his lip and looked away. 

“It’s alright.” Deiphobus placed a hand over his. They sat together for a while, just like that. 

“Are you afraid that he’ll hurt you?” 

He shook his head, but the question dug deep. Was he? Was it fear, that had driven him back? 

“We never know unless we take the leap.” Deiphobus cast an eye over Hector, the mood growing somber. It didn’t have to be said between them.  
“And if you can’t, it’s alright. Patroclus will come around. But, Hector -”  
Deiphobus took a deep breath. 

“You _deserve_ love.” 

What was that in his throat? In his chest? He tried to take his hand away, but Deiphobus only squeezed it tighter. 

“You deserve a life of happiness. And don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Not even yourself.” 

He was silent, letting his brother’s words sink in. The nightmares he had … the flames. Who had he been trying to protect Eirene from?  
Perhaps it had escaped his memory, but somewhere along the way, he had opened his eyes, and seen himself. The little girl’s eyes, looking at him in fear. It had eaten away at his soul, until he couldn’t recognize it anymore.  
Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it would take a lifetime of work, but Deiphobus had torn something free in him. He could feel the dam breaking.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus always waited for him. Even now, sitting in their empty room. He stopped in the doorway, looked him over. The sight twisted something inside of him. So much heartbreak. There was no other way they could close the gaps, but together. 

He walked up to Patroclus, knelt in front of him. Placed his head on his knee. A moment later, he could hear Patroclus’ sigh, feel the fingers running through his hair. Would that he never forget that touch. 

“Ask me again,” he breathed. 

Patroclus was frowning, he could tell. “I’ve asked for too much.”

He straightened, their gazes level. “Patroclus.” 

He took his hands, ran his thumbs over the knuckles. Slim and brown, perfect in his own. 

“There is nothing in this world I wouldn’t give you. _Nothing_.” 

“You’ve given me everything.”

“ _Ask me_.”

Patroclus looked at him, searching. Always searching. 

It didn’t matter, he had decided. Somewhere along the lines, he had given away his heart. Fragile and torn as it was, there were no other hands he would place it in but the ones he held now. _Please take care of it_ , he wanted to say. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t think it ever had. Perhaps he had been meant to give it away, from the very first.


	19. Chapter 19

“Steady … grip with your knees!” He kept reminding her, hovering nearby. He’d had to tell her constantly not to pull on the reins too hard. It reminded him of his own days learning to ride a horse, of all his brothers, and the thought made him smile. It was a phase in life, a rite of passage even, the same for Argives and Danaans alike. 

Eirene grinned back at him, finally looking comfortable being so high up on her own.  
“I’m doing it!” she exclaimed. And then the horse walked over an unsteady bit of ground, and she yelped, gripping the reins and pulling hard. It would take practice, he thought.  
\---

A few weeks later, and she was already riding across the field on her own, her tiny figure atop the large form of Sarpedon’s horse. 

“A warhorse? To teach a child?” Patroclus had questioned, raising his eyebrow.

But there was truly no gentler beast, Hector knew. And Eirene already loved the animal - how she’d begged him to take her to the stables, every single day in the past years. 

He could hear Patroclus a little ways behind, feet trekking in the grass, balancing their son on his hip. They shared a look, watching Eirene’s lap around the field. There was that small hint of nervousness, always lingering, that she would fall - but they had to push it away. This was only the beginning, and what a beginning it was. 

The thought made him smile, a feeling of warmth that wasn’t just the sun on his face. It was the height of summer in Simoeis, the days long and grand. These were their afternoons - Simoeis’ golden fields waving in the distance, the rolling hills further behind. He couldn’t imagine being anyplace else.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had taken a while to get used to the new atmosphere at the stronghold. He spent most evenings there, and Sthenelus had brought with him an air of change. He was a strict overseer, but over the months the men got used to him, and one couldn’t say he didn’t belong there as much as the rest. Most of his adjustment had been thanks to Deiphobus, whose easy nature balanced the scales against Sthenelus’ rigid supervision.

He remembered Deiphobus’ first week back at Simoeis’ garrison. In those days, it had been uncertain if both general and knight commander could work together. Hector had been completing his rounds of the fortress, checking on routine maintenance, and came across the two in Sthenelus’ office. 

“I trust you have the reports?” Sthenelus, sitting at his desk, barely looking up. 

Deiphobus looked taken aback.  
“It was only yesterday when you asked for them!” 

Sthenelus raised an eyebrow, and just then, he shared a passing resemblance with Patroclus.  
“And?”

“Io, give a man some time! It takes more than twenty four hours to compile a month’s worth of documentation!” 

“One would call that incompetence,” Sthenelus replied, crossing his arms. 

Deiphobus huffed and looked Sthenelus up and down.  
“I knew you before you were a general, in case you forgot.”

Sthenelus stood up, crossing the room to where Deiphobus was standing.  
“And perhaps the fact you remain in the same rank speaks for something of your character.” 

Hector had never seen Deiphobus look truly offended before. 

He nearly entered the room to intervene, but Deiphobus recovered quickly, a flash of amusement crossing his features.  
“Just because you’re gorgeous doesn’t mean you can talk to me like that, you know. I’ll get it done by tomorrow.” 

He raised his eyebrows at Sthenelus, then promptly walked away, leaving the general stunned.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus’ laughter filled the room later that night, shaking the bed.  
“I can tell you Sthenelus has never been called that in his life. He is far from approachable.” 

“I gathered that,” Hector smiled. 

In his lap, Ilus made a sound, pointing out the window at the trees. He held the child closer and kissed him on the head. 

“What’s that, love?” Patroclus rose and looked outside the window. 

A storm was brewing, the wind rushing hard, making the glass rattle. Ilus made another noise, still pointing, until Hector stood and joined Patroclus at the window. They watched the tree trunks bending over, the sky turning nearly black as rain started to patter down, a streak of lightning making its appearance. 

“So beautiful,” Patroclus mused.  
He glanced over at Ilus, who watched in fascination, not a trace of fear. Any minute now and Eirene would be barging into their room, not wanting to sleep by herself with the storm raging on.

How different their children were. His heart swelled at the thought, a fierce love so raw in its completeness. There had once been a time when he hadn’t known that feeling, and he wouldn’t give it up for anything.  
\--------------

The nightmares still came, at times. There were some things that never went away completely. Some nights they were terrors, making him jolt up straight from the bed, hair sticking to his forehead, lungs grappling for air. On those nights, Patroclus’ arms would come around him, and he would feel them fade away in the wake of soothing touch and comforting words.

They grew fewer and farther between, until they were distant dreams, ones he remembered but no longer haunted him, not like they used to.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sights and sounds that greeted him every day had become increasingly familiar. He could hear Patroclus and Penelope bickering in the kitchen. Something that would never change, he thought with a smile. The housekeeper had warmed up to Patroclus more with the presence of the children, but they still had constant arguments over household responsibilities. Both were stubborn people who liked things done a certain way - and it made for a clashing of the two personalities. 

“She’s grown on you,” Hector said one night. 

“Nonsense,” Patroclus had replied.  
“Frankly, I can’t wait for her to retire.”

He’d refused to admit it no matter how much Hector teased him, but in truth, he and the housekeeper had forged a mutual, if grudging, respect for one another.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had to admit, he could now understand why his mother had kept such a strict eye on him and his brothers when they were boys. He had been watching them play, and all it took was one second where he took his eyes off her. 

“Eirene!” he’d called, walking around the grounds. She did like to wander off by herself, but it had never gotten to the point where she disappeared from his sight. 

“What’s going on?” Patroclus asked, coming out of the house. 

“She must have gone to the stables. I’ll look for her,” Hector replied, lifting Ilus from the ground and handing him over to Patroclus. They would be wasting time arguing about it. 

He took off, quickening his pace to a jog as he reached the stables. She was nowhere to be found. 

“Io,” he muttered. Where was she? It was easy for a child to get lost once they reached the outer bounds of the estate, where the trees grew taller and the pathways twisted around. He kept calling her name, trying to keep himself focused, but nevertheless, the agitation grew. 

He caught sight of little footprints and followed them, all the way to the very edge of the estate, where the family cemetery was. Frightful that a child as little as Eirene could get this far all by herself. He was going to give her a stern talking-to when he found her. 

“Eirene!” He could see her now, dragging a stick by the graves. The cemetery had once been immaculate, but it grew harder and harder to keep up with the maintenance, with all the attention on the rest of the estate and the garrison. 

“Look, father!” Eirene said, pointing at a headstone.  
“That’s grandmother, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t you ever run off like that again!” he exclaimed, nearly red in the face. 

Eirene looked up at him. “Sorry,” she mumbled, sheepishly.  
Her expression brightened only a second later.  
“But it is, isn’t it?” 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, then paused to follow her gaze.  
“Yes, Eirene. That is where your grandmother is buried.”  
He took her hand, moving to lead her back to the house, but her feet seemed stuck to the ground. 

“Father, can we stay and look?” She gazed at him imploringly.  
“Please?”

What a strange child, he couldn’t help but think. He hadn’t known anyone who would willingly spend time in a graveyard, not even Deiphobus as a boy. They’d always avoided the cemetery like the plague, making up stories of gruesome horror to scare each other away. But then, what harm could it do? He’d never brought her here, and perhaps he should have. She would need to know her own family history. 

“Fine. But don’t wander off by yourself next time, Eirene.” 

“I won’t! Promise!” 

He rolled his eyes. How many times had they had this exact conversation? 

He let her pull him over to the headstones, where his mother and father were laid to rest. He thought he would have to tell her not to run around and trample the dirt over the graves, but Eirene proved more cognizant than he’d expected. 

“Is Grandfather going to live here when he dies, too?” 

He knew she was talking about Menoetius. He had to clamp his lips shut at her matter-of-fact attitude. How simple things were in a child’s world. And perhaps, that was how they really were, made complicated and unbearable by adult minds. 

“No, little one. He has his own in northern Argos.” 

They stopped in front of each grave, Eirene fascinated by the intricate carvings on each headstone. Peaceful, it was. Only she could make a place as somber as this something of curiosity. 

They stopped when they reached a lone grave, on the outer edge, a more recent addition to the others. Its headstone was white marble, shining bright even in the shade of the trees. Eirene was instantly drawn to it, going over and tracing her fingers over the carved letters. 

Something had caught in his throat.

“H - l - e … Hlenus?” she glanced back at him, looking both proud and uncertain at her attempt. 

“Helenus,” he corrected, softly. 

“Helenus. That’s a pretty name,” she said, and touched each letter. 

One day, he thought. One day, she would know. 

“Who was he, father?” 

He bit his lip, the old hurt making itself known again. Some things never truly went away, no matter how much they scarred over. They were like certain injuries from battle, phantom pains, that rose up again when the weather changed. 

He picked Eirene up, even though she really was too big to be carried, feeling her arms around his neck. 

“Someone I loved very much,” he whispered. 

He kissed her on the head. 

_One day._  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another late night at the garrison. Even Deiphobus had retired, but there were so many documents to file, he might as well just get it done. Patroclus had come along to help him. With all the new transfers from Argos, they had men by the dozens to keep track of. The army at Simoeis was quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with. 

Whatever people thought of Sthenelus, he worked tirelessly and without complaint. It was the kind of drive that had gotten him so far in the army, even as a Danaan, one that seemed to run in the family. Hector could hear him outside managing the inventory, all the new armor and weaponry that had been brought in from Argos for the men, some imported from Dardanus. 

“Gods, what a racket,” Patroclus complained, getting up from his chair and going outside. 

Indeed, there were pieces of metal strewn all over the floor, as Sthenelus struggled to pile the trunks up on top of one another. 

“If you needed help, you could have just asked,” Patroclus said, moving to pick up the stray pieces that had fallen. 

Sthenelus ignored him at first, but then another trunk toppled over, causing him to curse as a large breastplate landed on his foot. 

“Graceful, as always,” Patroclus remarked, bending to retrieve the breastplate. 

Hector shook his head as he sneaked glances from the office, ready to intervene if he had to. Over time, Patroclus and Sthenelus had managed to keep their few interactions civil. The strain between them that had been cultivated over the course of their lives would never fully dissolve. But Sthenelus didn’t seem to hold a grudge, at least, and that was a start. 

They worked silently, Patroclus collecting all the fallen pieces and passing them to Sthenelus. Eventually, conversation fell into place, and it was almost intriguing to watch the exchange between the brothers. Snippy remarks thrown back and forth, but the underlying current of humor was there. They knew each other too well to take each other too seriously. 

“This is what you imagined when you accepted the generalship from Agamemnon?” Patroclus smirked, when they had both stopped to take a break. 

“Don’t you even say it,” Sthenelus warned. 

“Housekeeper would have been less competitive for the same job. And better paid.” 

“Your voice is starting to irritate me.” 

And so they went on, until the armory had been stocked, the inventories checked and completed.  
\---

“He likes peaches.” 

“Mmph?” 

“And Dardanian wine.” 

“Rambling on about nothing again, Patroclus? You’re going to get senile when you’re father’s age.” 

Patroclus crossed his arms at Sthenelus. “Deiphobus.” 

“What about him?” 

“I’m just saying, you should know what he likes if you ever plan on courting him.” 

“Deiphobus?” Sthenelus scoffed. “He’s a brute.”

“A brute who makes you laugh. Considering how much of a humorless bastard you are, I’d say it’s a miracle.”  
Patroclus raised his eyebrows.  
“Better snatch him up before you die alone.” 

“The only reason I would die alone is because you stole my betrothed.” But there was no heat to the comment. 

Patroclus rolled his eyes. They exchanged a look, a small moment of shared understanding between them. 

Patterns could be broken.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was only the next day when he entered the kitchen, pressing himself up against Patroclus’ back and wrapping his arms around his waist.  
“What’s that?” he asked, feeling the other man fighting a smile.  
“Did something happen?” 

Patroclus cleared his throat and schooled his expression.  
“Sthenelus is, uh, coming over for dinner. Make sure you ask the servants to set another plate for him.” 

He grinned, poking his nose against Patroclus’ cheek. “ _Well_.”

“Shut up,” Patroclus said, clamping his lips tight. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Go away now.” 

He laughed, even when Penelope came in and berated him for being in the kitchen when everyone else was trying to work.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t the _most_ uncomfortable dinner he’d ever had. It could have been worse, he thought, even when Deiphobus’ half-hearted attempts at conversation fell flat, and both Patroclus and Sthenelus sat stiffly, clearly trying not to fidget. There was no doubt that they had been raised in the same household, now that he saw it. 

“Eirene,” he scolded, at the third time she left her seat to get Sthenelus’ attention. The other man had never truly been comfortable around his niece and nephew, and it only made Eirene want him to like her more. 

“It’s alright,” Sthenelus said. He looked at Eirene, swallowing and struggling to find something to say. 

“…”

“Can I try on your boots?” Eirene asked. 

“Well, um …” he glanced at Patroclus, who shrugged. “...No.”

“Oh.” Her face fell for a second. Then she continued. “Do you want to see my horse?” 

“Eirene, we are having dinner. You can ask Sthenelus about it later,” Hector cut in. She made a face, but slinked back to her seat when he shot her a firm look. 

“I … have a horse of my own. Perhaps you’d like to meet her?” Sthenelus offered, after a moment. 

Eirene beamed at him. “Yes, yes please, Uncle Sthenelus! Can we go right after dinner?” 

Hector sighed. Eating soup in peace seemed an impossible feat. He could feel Patroclus shaking with laughter next to him. 

“You’ll take her, won’t you, Sthenelus?” Patroclus suggested, eyes gleaming in mischief at the thought of his brother having to spend time with a child.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Happy now?” Hector asked, after dinner, when Eirene returned with windblown hair and a grin on her face rivaling the crescent moon. 

“She was so fast, father! Her coat was shiny and brown.” 

She went on to describe every single detail about Sthenelus’ horse, tugging at his collar to make sure he was still listening. 

“We fed her chestnuts! Oh! And her name is _Calliope_.” She sighed in contentment, as though it was the most wonderful thing in the world. 

He watched her in amusement. Little things. If the world could learn to take pleasure in the little things. Had they forgotten how to do it, when childhood gave way to what came after?

“Off to bed now,” he said, kneeling and giving her a kiss on both cheeks. 

“Can I see her again tomorrow?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I think your own horse might get jealous.” 

It made her giggle, and she leaned forward and pressed her nose to his, the way she’d done in earlier days. 

“Eirene,” he called, when she was halfway down the hall. 

“No chestnuts in bed.” 

She sulked, but turned out her pockets to show him they were empty.  
\------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a good night, he thought, passing the back entrance of the house as he strolled around, enjoying the cool night air. Sometimes he liked to take walks by himself, when the house was quiet. 

“Do you miss it?” 

“Argos? Well, I do consider it my home. But Simoeis isn’t bad, either.” 

Deiphobus’ and Sthenelus’ voices, carrying over to where he was standing. 

“I was thinking … we could make a trip down there, one of these days.” Sthenelus, sounding hesitant. 

There was a minute of silence, Deiphobus’ confusion apparent.  
“To the city?” 

“Yes.” Sthenelus was starting to sound a little impatient, now. 

“ … Are you thinking about visiting the brothels? Because …” Deiphobus paused, sounding sheepish.  
“I don’t … do that anymore.” 

An embarrassed silence. 

“Perhaps you could ask Ortheus and his unit? I hear they make frequent trips to the entertainment district.” 

“I meant you and me. Visiting Argos … together.” Sthenelus shifted his feet, the quiet that fell between them sounding painful. 

“But … what would we do there?”

“If you don’t want to -”

“I mean, I just -”

“Fine! Don’t go, then!” The sound of feet trekking through the grass implied that Sthenelus had stormed off. 

Hector shook his head, unable to stop a smile. Time would speak for it, but they would get there, he thought.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rainfall, again, not a storm this time. The droplets formed patterns on the glass, the light sounds of water against the tiled floor outside. What was Simoeis’ beauty without a little rain? He pressed his fingertips against the window, feeling it cooling up the skin. 

“Thinking again, aren’t you?” Patroclus’ amused voice. 

He closed his eyes and savored the sound of it, the pitch and tone like a warm touch to his ears. 

“Am I being too loud?” he jested, throwing a look over his shoulder. 

Patroclus, strewn out on the bed, watching him. He turned and drank in the sight, eyes roaming. 

Every corner and curve and line. Not a single one he loved more than the other. 

“Come here,” Patroclus said. 

He smirked. “Why?”

“Want you.”

He crossed his arms. “Can’t always get what you want, now can you?”

Patroclus stayed silent, simply staring at him until he went over and climbed over him.  
“Then again,” he mused, placing his nose in the crook of Patroclus’ neck.  
“I do miss having your beautiful legs wrapped around me.” 

Patroclus nudged him, leaning up to catch his lips. 

“Not so fast,” he said, pulling away a little. 

“ _Gods_ you are intent on being a tease tonight, aren’t you?” Patroclus complained, sighing and resting his head on the pillow. His fingers came up a minute later, tracing a line over Hector’s face. 

“Careful,” he whispered, touching a finger to Hector’s nose.  
“You almost seem happy.” 

“I would never dare,” Hector replied, leaning down and finally bringing their mouths together. 

What a feeling it was, Patroclus’ lips against his, his tongue playing at the edge of his mouth. There were few things in the world so perfect. 

They parted for air, and Patroclus peered up at him, never quite letting go. 

“How do you do that?” 

“Hmm?”

“Kiss me exactly how I like to be kissed?” 

He looked into those eyes, seeing his own reflection in them. One would never be able to tell, from the outside, but he had known it in himself for so long, that he didn’t see how it could possibly be hidden. 

“Perhaps you’ve shown me, time and time again.”

“What else should I show you?” Patroclus asked, his gaze playful, a touch of seriousness underneath. 

He stroked Patroclus’ hair, felt the strands between his fingers. 

“Give me time,” he said.  
“You might find then, that I know it for myself.” 

Those pieces of him, that made up his entire being. It was like they were rearranged, and pulled apart, then placed back together again.  
Curious, he thought, every time he looked at Patroclus and it happened. He felt like Eirene, eyes wide with the world around him.  
And in his vision, Patroclus, reflected in every corner no matter where he looked.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the sun shone on his face he didn’t pull the covers up anymore. He let himself bask in it, the light making patterns on the insides of his eyelids. Someone had crawled under the covers between him and Patroclus, someone with tiny, cold feet. He grabbed one of them and tickled, hearing a loud giggle. 

“Shh,” Patroclus said, still mostly asleep, and turned over. 

He opened his eyes and winked at Eirene, letting her snuggle up to him. 

“Father?” 

“Eirene?”

“Can we see Calliope now?” 

“Shh!” Patroclus said, grumbled, and pulled the covers over his head. 

The bed started to shake as they both placed their hands over their mouths, snorting with laughter. 

When Eirene had closed her eyes and promptly drifted off to sleep again, he looked up at the ceiling, the thought coming to mind. 

_He dared_. 

A life of happiness, Deiphobus had said. And he dared to claim it. 

Perhaps he didn’t know, then. 

Perhaps he didn't know that those moments he had stolen for himself, were as fleeting as the sand, always slipping through his fingers. 

But that was what made them all the more precious.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The persecutions began when Eirene turned five.

He remembered it clearly, because she had lost a tooth, while they were walking together in the fields. 

“It’s shiny,” she’d said, even as a trickle of blood ran down her chin.  
“I like it, father.” 

He snorted. Only Eirene, he thought. He didn’t know anyone else who said such things.

“I can’t wait to show it to Ilus!” 

He shuddered, imagining what could happen with a baby and a loose tooth.  
“Let’s … get you cleaned up first, little one,” he said. 

They hurried along the farmlands, and he noticed the number of people who ran past them. He didn’t think anything of it, his mind too focused on the present. 

They reached the house and it was in utter disarray, servants rushing to and fro, Penelope screaming orders at them. 

“What …?” 

He looked around for Patroclus, but couldn’t find him. 

“What’s going on?” 

He sent Eirene to the bath to wash up, then started searching, eventually coming up to their room. 

“Patroclus?” 

Patroclus was sitting on the bed, head in his hands. 

“Io, what’s happened?” He went up to him, and stopped short. 

Drops of blood covered one half of Patroclus’ face, his neck, staining the priceless fabric of his clothing. His eyes were wide as he stared back at Hector. 

“They -” he swallowed, trying to find the words. 

“ _What happened_?” Hector demanded, pulse starting to race. 

“There was a group of them.” Patroclus placed a hand over his mouth. 

“I was taking Ilus to see the new orchard. And -” His voice shook. 

“They were knocking on doors, Hector. They dragged someone out and -” he squeezed his eyes shut, then. 

“There’s a hunt,” he whispered. 

“They are looking for unbelievers.” 

He could feel the chill going down his spine, slowly, crawling along like a dagger under the skin. 

“Where is Ilus?” he asked, voice low. 

“He’s in the other room.”  
Patroclus started to tear up.  
“He saw it happen.” 

He got up, strode into the next room until his gaze landed on their son in his crib. The beating of his heart did not slow down. 

Ilus glanced up at him, seemingly fine, though traces of pink stained his skin, where it had been hastily scrubbed. He lifted him from the crib and held him close, pressing his face into the soft locks of hair, calming his own breathing. 

“Who?” he asked, when the minutes had dragged, Patroclus finally composing himself enough to get up. 

But he knew the answer. 

Two years. 

A quiet two years, the loss at Ilium fading away into the background. 

And all the while, one person who had never accepted it, who had been left with the scraps of his own defeat. 

It seemed there was a way. 

There was always a way, Hector thought. Even if it meant the coming of a storm, one that was so complete in its ugliness, made to strike down anything that stood in the path of victory. 

He glanced outside the window, at the thousands who had yet to accept the sect of Tros. He glanced at Patroclus, who had been born to a people forbidden from such belief. 

Slipping through his fingers. And he grasped it ever closer, desperately clinging on to all that was his.


	20. Chapter 20

The house had been a bustle of nonstop activity over the past few months. It was insane how severely things could escalate - the council had been indecisive over how they would handle Menelaus’ actions. Regardless of what they proposed, Menelaus wasn’t actually doing anything unlawful. The high lord had proved to be far more slippery than he had been given credit for - there was absolutely nothing in the Regime’s statute that prevented him from launching an inquisition, nothing that protected the citizens’ rights of religious freedom. 

It simply hadn’t been done before. The only thing left was to convince the other council members to approve a new policy, one that granted citizens sanctuary. There were a few who had sought asylum in the temples of Danaos and Io, but word went around that the inquisitors were willing to violate the sacred rights of the temples in order to achieve their goals. As of late, thousands of Danaans in Argos had been forced to leave the city, in fear of being attacked, kept prisoner, or killed. Simoeis was flooded with them, as was northern Argos, but the Argives had grown less sympathetic and were not inclined to open their doors. 

One of the only places left was Pergamum, the last free city of the east that had not been conquered by either Achaeans or Argives. Securing passage to the city was expensive, and most families spent their entire life’s savings getting their children on the ships to the east.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t quite as bad in Simoeis, so it was said. But they didn’t take Eirene with them anymore when they left the estate. It was hard to explain to a child her age of what was going on around them. How could she understand? In her eyes, all she saw were the Danaans who arrived in Simoeis by the dozens, families crowded in large carts. 

They had opened up two of the estate’s other houses as shelter for the Danaans, but it would not serve for very long. The locals were wary of them, they themselves having been forced to accept Tros in fear of sharing the same fate. And there was no telling when the inquisitors came, on fast horses that could cover a lot of ground very quickly. 

Some nights there would be the sounds of hooves against the ground, those white figures galloping across the field, coming to knock on doors. The inquisitors were made to emulate the Sons of Tros themselves - clad from head to foot in the priestly color, Menelaus’ emblem stark across their chests. Even more frightening were the registers of names they had, lists of all the Danaans who were citizens of Argos. It was hard to run, but impossible to hide. 

Patroclus had been working tirelessly to arrange quick passage for the Danaans on their land, ever fearful that they would be taken back to Argos. 

“If I’ve done my calculations correctly, we’ll be able to contribute funds until the end of the month.” Hector looked up from his papers.  
“Dei?”

“Huh?” Deiphobus started, a small smile on his face. 

He’d never seen his brother so distracted before, and shared a look with Patroclus. 

“Well …” Deiphobus tapped a quill against his chin. His eyes flickered, unable to concentrate. 

“Why don’t you take a break?” Patroclus offered. “Hector and I can manage it by ourselves.” 

Hector sighed, leafing through the documents all over again. They had been working on it well into the night, but it was a problem that kept demanding to be solved.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had returned from the garrison to find Eirene swinging her feet in the garden by herself. 

“What are you doing?” he asked her. 

She grinned at him and rooted through her pockets, taking out a handful of honeyed orange peel, a Danaan treat.  
“Look, that family at the other house gave me these!” She stuffed them into her mouth.  
“They’re not as good as the lemon ones pater makes for me, though.” 

He crossed his arms. “You were supposed to be with Penelope! How many times have I told you not to go off by yourself?” 

“She just makes me stay in my room! It’s too noisy in there, Uncle Sthenelus is always trying to pluck the peach tree outside.” He frowned at her, not expecting that at all. 

“You have to do what she says, little one. I’m not going to ask you again.” He took her hand and led her back into the house.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They waited for Patroclus to come home. He tended to be away the entire day now, riding out with Deiphobus to the trading post on the southern borders, where they could bribe caravans to take passengers outside Argos. 

“It’s him!” Eirene leaped up, when they heard the footsteps coming up. She launched herself at Patroclus as soon as he was in the door, arms around his neck. He laughed, bending to kiss her nose, making Hector smile a little despite the permanent worry that seemed to fill their days. 

“How many?” Hector asked, as he did every day. How many Danaans would be safely leaving Argos? 

Patroclus sighed, worry lines etched on his forehead.  
“No more than twelve. The caravans are getting stingier now that they know what’s at stake.”  
He settled on the carpet, reaching over to pull Ilus into his lap, who had been burbling happily as he played with his toy horse.  
“My father is coming,” he said, softly. 

It made Hector sit up a little straighter. If Menoetius was willing to contribute funds for the Danaans, at no profit of his own - that spoke for how bad it had gotten. 

“Pater,” Eirene said to Patroclus, one hand tugging on his sleeve. “Will you make me some more lemon peel?” 

“Eirene,” Hector sighed, rolling his eyes. Was there anyone more single-minded than a child?  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He asked me if I had forgiven you.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Sthenelus.” 

They were sitting by the hearth after the children had gone to bed, watching the flames lick up into the stone, crackling, a way to wind down from the urgency that had become a part of their lives. 

“And what horrible thing have I done?” Hector teased, laying his head in Patroclus’ lap, feeling the fingers carding through his hair. 

Patroclus paused for a while, seeming to be holding back laughter.  
“He asked if I forgave you for all the mistresses.” 

He stared up at Patroclus to gauge if he was being serious.  
“And have you?” he asked, feeling a grin threatening to break out. 

Patroclus’ shoulders started to shake, eyes shining with mirth.  
“It’s the children,” he managed, after he had collected himself a little.  
“He believes they are yours. Especially Eirene.” 

“ _Aren’t_ they mine? I would be rather dismayed otherwise.” 

Patroclus rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

“Why would he think that?” Hector asked, genuinely curious. 

Patroclus gave him a disbelieving look. He tapped the sides of Hector’s mouth, tracing it with one finger tenderly.  
“That,” he said, softly.

“What?” 

“Her smile. And yours. One and the same.” 

There was a moment of quiet, Patroclus getting a look in his eyes, one that made him want to keep staring, until he got lost in it. 

“What did you tell him?” 

Patroclus tilted his head to one side, as though he had to consider the answer.  
“The truth.” 

A second of silence, as it sank in. And then he leaned down and pressed his lips to the corners of Hector’s own, as though passing on a secret through touch.  
“I’ve learned something from you, too.” 

They held each other’s gazes, understanding passing between them. An extension of trust, from one brother to another. Bridges were built this way, he thought. 

He smiled and pressed his palm to Patroclus’ cheek. 

“I think the mistresses would be rather disappointed.” 

It made Patroclus howl with laughter, dropping next to Hector on the floor, the warmth of the hearth washing over them, making them forget the next day’s worries. 

Little things, he thought.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eirene had lost another tooth, and on her insistence, he had cleaned it and wrapped it up for her. He didn’t know what she did with the teeth. He didn’t want to know. 

He went into her room and left it by her bedside, then paused when he heard laughter outside. She had been complaining about the noise. Sure enough, when he glanced out the window, the peach tree had been stripped nearly bare, some of the branches hacked off, not a fruit in sight. 

Whatever people said about Sthenelus, he certainly had never done farm work in his life. He was about to turn away when he noticed Deiphobus walking away, Sthenelus not that far behind him. 

“Wait!” Sthenelus said. 

When Deiphobus turned around, he tentatively reached for his hand, looking down at their intertwined fingers. Deiphobus watched in surprised amusement. 

“Can I … see you again?” 

“We see each other every day at the stronghold,” Deiphobus replied, matter-of-fact. 

“I meant -” Sthenelus started, then shook it off when he caught sight of Deiphobus grinning at him. 

“I’ll think about it,” he replied, playfully, starting to walk away from Sthenelus, but the latter still had a hold on his hand. 

He pulled him back, catching him around the waist, and leaned their foreheads together before giving him a gentle kiss. 

“I’ll _definitely_ think about it,” Deiphobus corrected, a little breathless. He was red all the way to his ears. 

It was perhaps the first time Hector had ever seen Sthenelus with a real smile.

The earliest buds on the tree, given nourishment and patience, would bloom when they were ready. 

He shook his head in amusement, turning away from the window.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Polydorus gave him a long hug when he arrived at the estate. He hadn’t seen his brother in nearly a year, and whenever they did see each other, the visits were brief thanks to the demands of Polydorus’ job. 

“Tell me you have good news,” Hector sighed. “Or at least, news that isn’t awful.”

Polydorus bit his lip, keeping one hand on Hector’s shoulder as they strode into the sitting room.  
“I don’t think the policy is going to be passed, brother. The council is extremely divided, if you didn’t already know.” 

“Too afraid of Menelaus’ popularity?” Hector guessed. 

“He has far too many supporters in Argos, especially of the elite.”  
Polydorus rubbed at his head. He seemed to have permanent dark circles under his eyes, these days.  
“Only you, Agamemnon, and Nestor are overtly concerned about the inquisition’s effects. That leaves the majority vote in Menelaus’ favor.” 

“If we can convince just one more person -” 

“I fear it is getting even more dangerous to show opposition towards him, Hector. I know what you’ve been doing here and …” Polydorus hesitated.  
“Hector, even Agamemnon and Nestor are being careful about what they say or do with regards to Menelaus. He has the Sons of Tros behind him, and we all know how powerful the priesthood has become.”

“The people are still angry at him for the lives lost at Ilium.” 

“That may be true.” Polydorus looked Hector in the eye.  
“But you _know_ why he is doing this. It isn’t about the Danaans. It was never about them.” 

He had been thinking about it too much lately, and Polydorus finally voicing it only made the situation more pressing.  
“The people who have been questioning his authority since Ilium … this is his way of convincing them that his power is absolute. That there are repercussions for denying the word of Tros, which he has worked so hard to spread.”  
Hector shook his head. “I just don’t know what his ultimate goal is.”

Polydorus was contemplating quietly, that same expression Hector had seen time and time again, had grown up with.  
“Do you think -” he paused, pursed his lips.  
“He has been on the council for much less time than Agamemnon, but has managed to accumulate power rather quickly. In a way the others never attempted.”

Hector studied Polydorus, picking up on what his brother was getting at.  
“We used to think he wanted the upper hand against Agamemnon. But what if … it’s the rest of the council he’s after?” 

“It’s never been done,” Polydorus frowned.  
“The council has existed this long for a reason. To go back to the days before the Regime …” 

As uncertain as Polydorus sounded, there was no denying the possibilities. Polydorus got up and started to pace the room. They had perhaps caught at something far more dire than they’d anticipated.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could hear the servants starting to retire, the activity in the house dying down as it grew darker outside. It was his favorite time, seeing the veil of night falling over their lands; one blink, and he would miss it happening, as though it had always been this way after all. 

He could hear Patroclus and Eirene singing together in their room, and he paused outside, just listening. Eventually, Eirene would come out looking for him, but just for a moment - he closed his eyes and savored the sounds. These were the things that breathed life into his waking hours, he thought. Bits and pieces, no matter where he stood. 

The moment passed, and he went inside, greeted by the sight that was his every night. 

“Father, where were you?” Eirene asked. “It’s your turn to tell a story!” 

He shared a look with Patroclus. It was _always_ his turn. However many times he told them, Eirene never got enough. Market days, and the red and black ships. One day she would see it for herself, and realize it wasn’t much at all. But for now, it remained a distant dream, a wonderland too far away to be reached in anything but her father’s stories. 

“Don’t you ever get tired of them?” he asked. 

“I know _I_ do,” Patroclus added, cuddling up to Ilus, who was falling asleep against him. 

Eirene shook her head vehemently. 

“Fine,” Hector sighed, settling next to Patroclus. “Why don’t you start, Eirene?” 

“When you and Uncle Dei were little -” she piped up, and her voice rattled on. 

He and Patroclus listened in amusement - Eirene tended to exaggerate the details. 

“Somehow I don’t think we fought pirates, little one,” Hector cut in, ignoring Patroclus’ nudge. 

“It happened!” Eirene insisted. 

“Mm, well you see, I was actually there -” 

Eirene ignored him and continued telling her version of the events. 

“This is your fault, you know,” he mumbled to Patroclus, who smirked, one hand stroking Ilus’ hair until the child had fallen asleep.

“And then,” Eirene made a suspenseful pause as she was about to finish the story -

Someone was knocking on the door downstairs. 

He straightened up, feeling Patroclus stiffen a little beside him. 

“It’s probably Polydorus,” he said, although his own blood had started to go cold. 

“Wait, father -” 

“Stay here.”  
He looked at Patroclus.  
“Put Ilus to bed, then wait in the room. Alright?” 

Patroclus nodded, expression unreadable even though his face had gone a few shades paler. 

He went downstairs, telling himself not to hurry, to keep his footsteps steady. 

He opened the door slowly, as though for any other guest. 

It wasn’t Polydorus. 

“High Lord Hector,” Nestor and two other council members stood outside. Nestor at least managed to look slightly apologetic. 

“High lords,” Hector greeted, but spoke no further. He eyed them each in turn. 

“You know who we are here for.”

He was silent, staring back at them. “No.” 

“Hector -” Nestor grimaced. “I’m afraid we have no choice.” 

“How is this going to look?” Hector questioned. “You taking away a council member’s spouse against his will?”

“Believe me, I wish it didn’t have to happen. But the council remains in Menelaus’ favor.” 

“You come to my house, and you _dare_ -” 

Nestor leaned forwards, looking Hector in the eye.  
“Please. I am imploring that you do not resist.”  
He jerked his head behind him. 

A few feet away, several lines of guards from the city stood in silence. There were enough of them to form a small army. His blood curdled at the sight. The high lords had arrived expecting resistance, and were prepared to smother it. 

“So you do Menelaus’ dirty work for him, now?” Hector challenged, gaze roving over the guards, checking the house’s exits from the corner of his eye. 

It was no use. There were too many of them, and only him and Patroclus. 

“Hector.” He whirled around, seeing Patroclus standing behind him. 

He frowned. “No, Patroclus -” 

“I will go.” 

His stomach lurched, wanting to grab on to Patroclus, to bring him away. He had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep them at his sides, the desperation rising, the fear. 

“It is settled,” Nestor announced. He nodded at Patroclus.  
“This does not have to be any more difficult than it already is. I am glad you see that.” 

“Patroclus,” Hector breathed, trying to block him, shield him, anything that would stand between him and the men trying to take him away. 

But Patroclus touched Hector’s shoulder, gently moving him aside.  
“You will find a way,” he whispered, passing by him in the doorway, arms brushing against each other. 

Their eyes locked, for an instant. 

“Bring me home.” 

“I will.” 

“I know you will.”

“Pater!” Eirene, running down the hallway. They froze. 

“Where are you going?” She grabbed on to Patroclus’ hand, squeezing hard, and wouldn’t let go. 

“That’s it,” one of the other high lords said, making a swift gesture for the guards to approach. 

“ _Wait_ ,” Patroclus hissed at them. He looked down at Eirene, struggling to compose himself, to keep his voice steady. 

“It’s alright, love.” 

“No, I don’t want you to go!” 

Hector closed his eyes and tried to lift Eirene away, but she wasn’t having it. Her little hand held on to Patroclus with iron desperation. 

“It’s alright,” Patroclus kept saying, his expression faltering as he stared back at Eirene. The guards had come up to take him away. 

“We will not forget this, Nestor,” Hector growled, vision turning red, arms around Eirene. 

Patroclus bit his lip, blinking the tears away rapidly as he tore his hand from Eirene’s, letting the guards lead him from the house before it could become violent. 

Every instinct he had was to run after them. He held on tightly to Eirene, making sure she didn’t do the same. 

_You will find a way_. He would. He held on to those words, clinging on to them with all he had.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We will get him back,” Polydorus affirmed, gaze determined. 

They had been weighing their options, not a single one left unexplored. It didn’t matter. He knew what Menelaus wanted. It had nothing to do with Patroclus, nothing at all. 

Everything they had worked for. To be cast aside, like this. But he would do it. He would do it if he had to. 

“Hector,” Polydorus said, guessing at his thoughts. He was starting to look worried.  
“Give me time.”

“We don’t have time,” Hector replied. 

“They must be keeping him at the citadel. I am certain they would not harm him.” 

“Until?” Hector questioned. He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
“Arrange me a meeting with Menelaus.”

“Give me _time_ , Hector,” Polydorus pleaded.  
“You need not throw everything away.”

“He _is_ everything!” Hector snapped.  
He paused, calming himself down.  
“He’s -”

“I know,” Polydorus said, gently this time. He placed a hand on Hector’s arm.  
“You’ve always given me your trust. I ask you to give it again.” 

He knew what Polydorus was asking, how they could start to tip the scales in their favor. But like many honest efforts, it would take time. Like planting seeds in a field, wondering when they would sprout. 

“I will speak to Menelaus,” Hector said. 

He couldn’t risk it. He just couldn’t.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He tossed and turned in his bed, the empty space next to him seeming more vast as the night went on. His fingers brushed against Patroclus’ pillow, a painful twinge ringing in his chest; he rolled over and buried his face in it, wondering if this was how it had been, the months he had been away at Ilium. 

Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep, getting up and wandering the halls instead. Tomorrow depended on so much. And he had to quiet his thoughts, gather his strength to face it. 

All that raw belief, in Patroclus’ eyes. Constant and unceasing, the way it always had been. There was a promise made long ago - that he would reach the ends of the earth before he saw it broken.  
\---------------------------------------------------

He paused outside Eirene’s room, opened the door and went inside. She was bundled up in the covers, her feet sticking straight out. He pulled the sheets over and tucked them in, moving to kiss her hair, then stopped when something obstructed his path. 

She had taken several of Patroclus’ things from their room and wrapped them in a blanket beside her pillow, one hand tangled possessively on the edge, as though afraid someone would steal them away. He looked them over, heart growing heavier by the second - Patroclus’ green dressing gown, his comb, and the little booklet he used to note Ilus’ growth - all things that had his touch, things he had left a mark on. 

How did she know to keep them close to her? 

He laid a hand on her head, wondering what she dreamed about, if she had any more peace than he did. 

Tomorrow, he thought. Just wait for tomorrow.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The light streamed through the stained glass windows, Menelaus’ own home in the Red Quarters. He had never been here, and was surprised at how modest it was. In truth, he had never really spoken to the high lord alone before. 

Menelaus sat across from him, and he could hardly believe this man was a threat. The demeanor reminded him too much of Helenus, the way he sat - it made him want to look away. 

“So,” Menelaus started. He kept his eyes on Hector, but his expression was friendly, gentle, even.  
“What brings you to Argos, Hector? I hope you don’t mind that we forgo titles today - after all, this is my own home.” 

He looked even younger up close, and couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Hector himself. 

“It is no problem,” Hector conceded. He met Menelaus’ gaze.  
“A few days ago, you had my husband taken from our home. I would like you to release him.” 

Menelaus nodded understandingly, as though this were a problem that occurred quite often.  
“It must have grieved you so, dear friend.” 

Hector’s blood started to boil, but he clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut. Calm, he told himself. _You will gain nothing by losing your temper_.

“I understand it will not come without a price. So I am prepared to offer you a bargain for his freedom.” 

Menelaus raised his eyebrows a little, but he wasn’t surprised. Hector had a feeling few things caught the man off guard. He might not have had Agamemnon’s presence - but his quiet grace alluded to something far more dangerous.

“Of course, you must understand that sacrilege cannot be paid off,” Menelaus replied, and laughed a little, as though it were ridiculous to think that it could. 

Hector pursed his lips, seeing how it was going to be. 

This … _facade_. 

He shook his head to himself. Menelaus was acting a part, and he was being expected to play along. It made his insides recoil, sickened. 

“Sacrilege?” He clenched his jaw and stared hard at Menelaus.  
“You were a Son of Tros. Perhaps you know better than me on how to speak to the gods. Do they tell you the merits of terrorizing a people that has long lived alongside us in peace?” 

Menelaus smiled, as though at a child who was trying to argue with him.  
“The gods tell me many things, Hector. But the rest, time reveals.” 

He leaned forward in his chair, eyes bright and intent.  
“Tros teaches us many lessons. The most important of all; that our enemies can become our friends. It is not their fault that they do not know any better. But we, righteous Argives, must take it upon ourselves to teach them. There is no greater responsibility.” 

He knew, then. The knowledge dawned on him, and he had to fight the surge of rage, the grief that came over him in that moment. 

Menelaus’ words were a mask for what had actually driven him to where he was. 

“Teach them?” Hector voiced. He locked gazes with the other man.  
“Was that what you thought to do, when you had the village burned down?” 

The silence stretched on between them, and he didn’t care to fill it. There was no fighting a storm, Patroclus had once warned him. And he knew what this man was. 

Menelaus was studying him, almost in approval.  
“You see things others do not, Hector. It is a wonder you do not see what a danger it is to have an impious mind in your household, sullying the thoughts of your own children -”

“ _Enough_.” 

He took a deep breath, quelling the racing of his thoughts. _It will take years_ , General Deucalion had once said. Years had passed. They had resources now, and experience fighting their enemies. 

“You knew the Achaeans would want to retaliate after what we did to their people. Innocent lives … that should have been left alone. And that is why you want the fortress.” 

A few minutes passed by, Menelaus biding his words.  
“It will be hard to let go of your life’s legacy.”

“Do not pretend at knowing what my life’s legacy is,” Hector bit back.  
“You have gone about this in a way that undermines what the Regime stands for. I only ask that you delay the questioning, and the killings.”  
He raised a hand when Menelaus started to protest -  
“Until we can have a proper council meeting, and a vote. And then …” his stomach dropped at the thought.  
“We will begin negotiations to have the fortress under your name.” 

Menelaus leaned back and smiled again. He nearly looked like a carving of Tros himself, and it irked Hector to his very bones.  
“You make a sound offer, friend. I am sure the council will decide accordingly.” 

“They will,” Hector shot back. 

He got up from his chair, tired and sickened by the exchange. Men like this … these were the ones who knew how to rule the world. 

And he had just decided - _he would do everything in his power to stop it_.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Word went around about what he had offered Menelaus - it was inevitable. These were not secrets to be kept from the soldiery, and he didn’t think it would have been fair. 

“Whatever happens, brother,” Deiphobus started, and laid a hand on Hector’s shoulder.  
“We will always be yours.”

He gazed at his brother, feeling a note of pride at the words. 

A little behind Deiphobus, Sthenelus retained his usual stoic demeanor, but gave a solemn nod. 

They were not his to command, not forever. But loyalty went both ways, and it moved something in him to learn he had theirs.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Delay the inquisition? That’s good. At least it will buy the Danaans some time until we get this settled,” Polydorus mused. 

Hector looked over at his brother, how he worked so diligently no matter the circumstances.  
“I should have listened to you,” he admitted. 

Polydorus glanced at him in question. 

“You said to give you my trust. You have it - it should never have been a question, Polydorus.” 

A few seconds of quiet, then Polydorus smiled softly. He reached over and patted Hector’s hand.  
“I understand, brother. But -” he grinned wide.  
“Now you get to see what I do best.” 

He spread out the register that had each of the council members’ names on them.  
“You will soon realize, that men who come to such power, don’t do so without constantly looking over their shoulders. It is my job, as Head Secretary, to point them in the right direction.” 

“How are we going to do it?” Hector asked. 

He frowned down at the names. Agamemnon would not need convincing, being Menelaus’ natural opponent in all things.  
Nestor, on the other hand … he hadn’t looked like he was doing it on his own accord, when they came to take Patroclus away. The others would be more difficult. Too long, and they had been on Menelaus’ side all this while. 

“The council has endured because its members are seen as equals. Of course, there are always the ones who will have the public’s support, more so than the others. But at the end of the day, decisions cannot be made without a vote. When that is taken away, we are no longer a Regime. We would be an autocracy. And that is something no member of the council will hesitate to fight against.” 

He felt his lips curl into a smile, guessing at what his brother was planning. It was simple. So simple. He almost laughed. Patroclus would have figured it out ages ago. 

_They already had the weapons_. 

“The truth.”  
He shared a look with Polydorus.  
“You can run from it, but it catches up to you. And there is nothing we fear more.” 

Polydorus nodded. 

Menelaus, every move calculated until this day. He was a snake in the brush, waiting for the moment to strike. 

But plans had a way of revealing themselves. 

Men who reached too far fell the longest, he thought. And they knew, just then, how to push Menelaus over the edge.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a saying that rumors could spread like wildfire. 

But when each seed that was planted brought a vision of the future - a vision where the Regime no longer stood - who was to say how fast they grew?  
\---

“You have been summoned to a meeting at the citadel,” Polydorus announced. 

The house had been cold and empty without Patroclus’ presence, but he knew - it was about to change. 

They had pushed through the sidelines, and used the information they knew. 

In a day, they would be able to undo what Menelaus had been building for the past few years, since Eirene was barely more than an infant. 

There was no action taken faster than when men in power were threatened. It was a new lesson, he thought, and filed it away.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I will be back before you know it, little one,” he said, and kissed Eirene on both cheeks. 

She clung to him. How it must have been for her, he could only imagine. To watch one parent taken from their home, and another leaving for the city. 

“Hey,” he whispered to her, as though in conspiracy.  
“You will do me a favor, won’t you?” 

“What, father?” Eirene asked, her solemn expression immediately turning wide-eyed. 

“You will watch for him, when he comes home?” He gazed at her seriously.  
“There is no one I trust more for this job.” 

Eirene considered this, and nodded her head with the same intensity.  
“I will, father. I’ll sit right in front of the door, promise.” 

She looked up at her brother, who was being held in Penelope’s arms.  
“Ilus can come too? I can wake him up if he falls asleep!” 

He chuckled, touching Eirene’s hair. They curled at the ends in little ringlets, just like Helenus’ had before he’d joined the priesthood. 

“Give him a kiss from me when you see him,” he said. “I will be back as soon as I can.” 

Eirene straightened like a little soldier, so much that he thought she would give him a salute. She did not move her stance even when he had mounted his horse and ridden away, her figure fading away in the distance.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I wonder who will replace him,” Polydorus pondered, as they dismounted and led their horses into the city. 

“You might be thinking a little too far ahead,” Hector replied. 

They were on their way to the meeting, and the vote had not been cast yet. But in him, the weight had lightened. They would not fail. 

It was going to be a task rectifying the damages Menelaus had made. They could get rid of him, but his supporters ran rampant. The Danaans wouldn’t be safe, not for a while. But at least - the inquisition would be stopped before it was allowed to continue further. 

His heart sank when he thought of it. No victory was a complete one. 

Would his children ever grow up in a world where their parents’ two tribes were equal? Would hatred mar every step? 

He and Patroclus had set out to change what little they could. And it was when the first taste of success made itself known, that they were pushed back even further, the past taken advantage of for one man’s goals. 

Was there any changing what couldn’t be changed? He refused to believe it. There had to be something better. A different sort of future, as Patroclus had wanted.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a crowd leading all the way to the top of the citadel. They had to weave through, pushing past bodies, dodging elbows. 

“ _What_ is going on!” Polydorus complained. 

It was nearly as bad as a festival day. There was much chatter, the people around them intent on getting a good spot to see what was happening at the citadel. 

They made their way through, trying to catch the guards’ attention so they could be escorted into the building, in time to attend the meeting. 

The crowd around them was starting to fall silent, and as they reached the top of the citadel, he saw why. 

He glared up in confusion. Menelaus stood before the masses, preparing to address them. What …? 

“Is he trying to avoid the vote?” Polydorus muttered in his ear. 

He shook his head, craning his neck to listen. What was Menelaus playing at? 

“Men of Argos, children of Tros,” Menelaus began. 

There were nudges and whispers at his address, it defied tradition. Hector could see that not everyone was behind it. 

“By the will of the priest-king, I speak to you.” 

More whispers. 

“A great terror has befallen our city, a danger brought about that we must withstand together. I beseech you to listen. For centuries, Argos has flourished under our protectors, our guardians, the keepers of Tros’ sacred word.”  
He beckoned behind him, to where the Sons of Tros stood in their silent line. 

Hector could feel his heart beating faster, and he didn’t know why. 

“Through their service to the gods, they have ensured our safety, our continuity as a nation.” 

There was not a single sound in the crowd now, everyone was listening intently. 

“But the gods have been angered!” Menelaus continued.  
“There has been a breaking of the sacred vows, an evil that has not been committed in over a century!” 

The murmurs started to rise up again, some gasping in shock. This sort of scandal did not usually make itself known so abruptly. Hector and Polydorus turned to each other, staring. Menelaus couldn’t possibly … 

“Every heart in Argos knows of this truth. That in the face of such hubris, the gods punish willingly. No man, or woman, or child, can escape their wrath when such a wrong has been committed. It is not even avoidable by death.” 

He felt Polydorus’ hand tightening around his wrist, as the Sons of Tros parted. 

He felt the horror rise within him, like a tide over the shoreline. 

_No_. 

“This is not happening,” Polydorus muttered, over and over again. 

His grip was so tight it burned the skin. 

“No, no, no.”

On the top of the citadel, a white-clad figure was led towards the crowd. His hair had been shorn, like any other Son of Tros. He was blindfolded. 

“Deiphobus,” Hector croaked, and surged forward, but Polydorus held him back. 

His heart was threatening to tear out of his chest. 

Menelaus had _known_. And this was how he had chosen to retaliate. 

“This man carries the bloodline of Tros! It is on his head, that the gods have chosen to exact their justice -”

He couldn’t listen. _He couldn’t listen_. 

“Deiphobus!” he screamed, tearing away from Polydorus. 

“No, Hector,” Polydorus sobbed, into his ear, arms wound around him tight.  
“They will _kill_ you if you intervene!” 

He fought, and he screamed his brother’s name, but Polydorus held him, tears streaking down his face. 

Above them, Deiphobus shook, put on display for all Argos to see. 

His back was straight and his face betrayed nothing, but Hector could see … the clenched jaw, the lips beginning to tremble, the eyes full of life shut away by the cloth. 

His _brother_. And a crime committed long ago, that he had been chosen to pay for by some horrid, twisted luck. 

He didn’t know how long he screamed, but his throat gave way, and it was soundless cries, that would never reach his brother, never save him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rain had started to come down by the time he reached the cemetery, the place for the condemned outside the city. Here was where past Sons of Tros had been taken, ones who had broken their vows. 

A place he had made sure Helenus would never know. A place that was determined to claim its mark in their lives.

He ran, and he slipped, in the mud, eyes frantically searching for their tracks. It had been hours. They were lost to him, in the downpour, the footprints faded away. And still he searched. 

“Hector!” Polydorus called after him, running, falling.  
“Wait!” 

He pressed on. The rain fell into his eyes, hard droplets nearly blinding him, but he shielded his face and kept looking, past all the nameless graves, looking for a fresh mound of dirt. 

Over there. 

It was hard to tell, with the sky so grey, turning black as clouds continued to gather. He waded through the mud, not caring when he fell. He would have to work quickly, he thought. His hands dug into the earth, into the fresh dirt that had been piled up. He summoned all his strength, even when he thought he would collapse at any moment, his hands working, and working. 

He would not stop until he found the chamber. The seconds were precious, and Deiphobus would lose time, every beat that he failed to find him -

“Hector, please!” Polydorus, wailing behind him, and hands coming around him to pull him away. 

“ _No_!” he screamed, although he couldn’t tell if the word even came out, his throat had dried up. 

Fingers rooting through the dirt, and he couldn’t tell how deep he had gotten, it was all around him, he couldn’t see where it began and ended. 

“Deiphobus!” he called. 

“He’s already dead, Hector!” Polydorus sobbed. 

“Stop this! _Stop it_!”  
He pulled at Hector’s arm, his face white, and angry, and haunted, but Hector shook him off. 

“Fucking _dig_!” he gritted out, although he was lost. 

How? 

He was knee-deep in the dirt now, and he thought he could go further, but his chest heaved, limbs slowing down in exhaustion. 

_Don’t you fucking stop_ , he told himself. 

_Don’t you fucking_ … 

_Don’t._

He closed his eyes, gasping for breath, the rain making the dirt around him a pool of mud, enclosing him, until he lay in the ground. 

“Deiphobus,” he said, as though his brother could hear him. 

He slammed his forehead against the ground, fingers rooting. 

“Deiphobus,” he whispered, as though the name could summon what had been lost. 

His fingers stopped. He thought his heart stopped too, just then. 

Polydorus had given up behind him, watching him with an empty look. 

He could feel his face crumpling up, the tears getting mixed with the rain. He could not do anything but weep, the sound not coming out, as hushed as the wind whirling through the trees. 

“ _Dei_.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lights were on in the house when he returned. He didn’t pause, coming up to the front door, his boots trailing mud all the way. 

He opened the door and stopped in the doorway. A flutter of relief, before he drowned again. 

Eirene and Ilus were playing on the floor, and Patroclus … 

Patroclus, he thought, although his vision blurred even when the other man got up and went to him. 

_What gods should he thank?_ he thought, and swallowed the bitterness.

“Father! I did my job!” Eirene sang, leaping up and moving to kiss him hello.  
She grinned back at Patroclus. “I gave pater _three_ kisses. Didn’t I?” 

He stared at her. He started to shake, and he could see her eyes dimming, watching his expression. 

No. 

He forced a smile. 

“Eirene,” he whispered. “Of course you did.” 

He took her into his arms and pressed his face into her hair. 

“Father, why are you all muddy?” She ran a hand over his sleeve.  
“Penelope is going to be cross.” 

His hands trembled as he held her, and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. 

He pulled away from her, getting up and looking at Patroclus. 

“Take them into the other room,” he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. 

Patroclus had been smiling at him, but it turned into a frown. “What -” he paused, looking Hector up and down.  
“What happened?” 

“ _Take them_ ,” he insisted, and turned his face away when a tear slid down. 

Patroclus went up to him, taking his face in his hands.  
“Love,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?” 

“Please,” he said, and his voice did break then. 

“I don’t want them to -” he wiped his face quickly, keeping it turned away, shielded from his children’s eyes. 

“ _I don’t want them to see me like this_.” 

Patroclus was silent for a moment, thumbs catching his tears.  
“Alright,” he murmured. 

He went and picked Ilus up, took Eirene’s hand, and led them away into the other room. 

“Wait, don’t you want to -” Eirene called, sounding confused. “Father?”

He turned away from her, even when she kept calling him. 

His feet carried him through the halls, finding their room, and didn’t stop until his knees gave way, his body meeting the cold marble floor. 

He lay curled up, arms around himself, as if he could hold together the pieces of his broken soul. 

It did not work. 

He must have drifted away, because when his vision cleared again, Patroclus was laying across from him, curled up on the floor so they were facing each other. He stared, although there was nothing to see. 

He had stopped searching. 

He didn’t think he would ever forget, the feeling of his hands through the dirt, and how his body had failed him, losing touch as his brother lay beneath. 

They looked at each other. Him and Patroclus, the world around them.


	21. Chapter 21

How long was enough? He didn’t know, he thought, cheek pressed against the cold marble floor. Some people spoke of grief as a river. Perhaps they were wrong. He felt as still as a lake, perfect mirror to the sky, not a ripple in sight. 

At long last, his limbs found the strength to move. Was he one of Eirene’s straw dolls, breathed to life by a kiss? He sat up, feeling his own weight, a statue, slow and sluggish. Next to him, Patroclus moved with him. He blinked at the ground, blinked the haze from his mind. He looked at Patroclus, with half-lidded eyes. 

A small touch to his cheek, and he leaned his head to the side. The pads of Patroclus’ fingers, stroking over his skin, up to his temple, his forehead. No words. Just the ticking of the seconds, both of them on the floor. 

He studied Patroclus, the worry lines on his face, dark circles under his eyes. Their people kept vigil for the dead. Patroclus had waited with him, to bring him back from beneath. 

“Ready?” A quiet whisper. 

He shook his head. He took Patroclus’ hand and placed it on his chest. The fingers parted, and he filled the gaps. He closed his eyes. Would that he never forget that touch, he thought. There were certain things that would only be healed by time. Not this. But he had lost something of his strength, and when their skin met, he remembered. 

Was he ready? He nodded.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It is a pity what happened,” Agamemnon remarked, his quiet voice filling the tunnel. 

Tunnels. The Dardanians had built tunnels. He found his thoughts drifting away, and steadied his breath, to bring himself back. 

“But - you see how this idea could be more dangerous than it is worth.” 

A man of Argos, through and through. There was a lesson learned there - persuasion meant nothing without knowing the heart of a man. 

“When the storm comes, do you pick up your sword?” Echoing, always, in his head, in his spirit. 

Agamemnon met his gaze, the same fire igniting. There were some men who were made to stand still, no matter how the waves raged on. They could cut off his legs, and push his face into the sand, but his body stayed rigid until death. 

Some men would never bow. And in that moment, they knew the other’s measure.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What if they don’t listen?” Polydorus asked. 

On the other side of the wall, they could hear the voices murmuring. His brother waited, hunched over in suspense, eyes hardened by the memories that had shaped him. 

He turned away from the voices, turned his face to the window. The light outside was sparse, but its presence soothed him. There was once when such sights were rare.   
“They will listen.” 

Polydorus glanced at him, as if to make sure. Then he nodded, straightening, smoothing out his robes. For once, he wore his own, the colors of the Regime forgotten. 

He didn’t have to look to know Patroclus was beside him, even as they entered the room, the voices quieting down. How many months had it taken for this room to be filled? He looked down at his hands, the palms, where the lines met in the middle. What a joke it had been, back then. Now, the laughter came with irony. 

“You must wonder why I have called you here.”   
He paused, meeting each gaze, greeting each face. Patroclus’ fingers found his, in the shadows. His thumb stroked over them, not letting go, even as he stepped into the lamplight, to be seen and heard. 

The faces. Nestor, and his children. Idomeneus and Deucalion. Familiar, and strange. Among them, Polydorus, who had worked tirelessly for months, swaying minds and whispering in ears. 

Rumors caught like wildfire. But the truth … what more could it bring? 

They would soon find out, he thought. Even now, they risked everything. The council, faceless puppets under one man’s rule. All of Argos, in subjugation to the living avatar of the priest-king. And one death, that had set the stage. 

But in the midst of the play, in the midst of blind faith, were eyes that saw the chaos beneath. And these were his weapons. 

He looked back at Patroclus, pressed his lips to the inside of his wrist, feeling the pulse racing there. 

Guards outside the house, leading him away. Just another face, among the dozens, sand blowing into their eyes on the roads out of Argos. _Never again_ , he thought.   
\-----------

“Why?” a soft voice, one of Nestor’s sons. “Why have you called us here?”

There was once when the words would not have come. How could he speak to a people, even his own, when his only truth had been admitted to a stranger, so many nights ago on a balcony in the city hall?

But the years had taught him. And a voice, guiding him, until his tower was built.

“We are a people who know not of what we are. We have been formed and molded, made imperfect by history. We have listened, and observed, as the world around us moves. But how long should it keep spinning? How long, until we stop it in its tracks?”

Silence, as he looked all around him, waiting for a word of protest. 

“Shall we keep on watching? Shall we keep on learning? How long until the lesson becomes known? Until we forget, and pass on the remnants to our children? Our sons and daughters, left behind in a world that will not stop for them, the pieces on the ground they do not know how to shape?”

He closed his eyes, thinking of Eirene, the wind in her hair. Ilus, who had been named for a distant memory, two gazes met in understanding over a gap in the fence. 

“There are many things we never needed to teach them. To walk. To laugh. To dream. But to recognize the mistakes of the past? How are they to know, without even the smallest guidance?” 

Persuasion. Meaningless without knowing the heart of a man. But like other words of intent, it went both ways. And he knew who he was. There was no sounding the cry of rebellion without a mind and a heart. 

Patroclus had seen it in him from the very beginning. But both of them had been wrong. The cause they fought for was not the Regime as it stood now. It was for a different sort of future. One that could not be won alone.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Agamemnon waited for him in the tunnels behind the Red Quarters. Once, this had been a system of drains, the city’s main water supply. As civilization rose to its peak, they had moved on from simpler times. What was left behind was a place most had forgotten about. But as Deiphobus had said once, Agamemnon knew the city like the back of his hand. 

“A final meeting, before the cards are on the table,” Agamemnon mused, one side of his head tilted upwards to listen to the sounds of the city. 

“You know what he wants?” 

Agamemnon smiled without moving his lips. “The likes of Menelaus do not get as far as they do without thinking the worst of others.” 

He considered this, mind flipping through the possibilities.   
“He cannot fight the Achaeans without our troops. After all, the men who left for Ilium were under General Deucalion’s command.” 

“My last chance to win control of the war,” Agamemnon nodded. “Who am I to let it slip away?” 

An offer of truce, then. Just enough to get the men on Menelaus’ side, prepared to meet the Achaeans in one last battle for the Holy City. Even Menelaus knew. Wars could not be fought with prayers and offerings. 

At the sidelines, Polydorus waited. No matter the changes, the demands of his position never stopped. As a messenger of the Regime, he would have to tread carefully, never stumbling over the cracks in the pavement.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Midnight or morning, he never knew anymore. It seemed the dreams had abandoned him, his mind giving way to waking thoughts, ever since his brother’s death. Sometimes he found his rest by sitting in the dark, feeling the mattress dip under his weight, the smoothness of the floor under his feet. 

This house, his home. The walls, the ceiling. If he quieted his thoughts and listened, he could hear its very heartbeat, a drum in the earth sounding out for generations. 

There was beauty in darkness, he thought. He had seen it once, and twice, more times than he could count. In the shadows lay the words that remained unspoken, the dreams unfulfilled, the memories laid to rest. But how beautiful they were. Once golden in their glory, now faded into grey. Did the darkness take that away? He didn’t think so. 

Beside him, Patroclus shifted in his sleep, the covers falling away to reveal naked skin. He turned to look, letting his gaze land on each spot, the planes of the body he had once thought to memorize. 

How could he? 

It was like memorizing the evening, that split second when the sun dipped below the horizon, sending streaks of color across the sky. Different, every time. 

He reached out a hand and smoothed it over the shoulder, down the torso and over the hip. Some sights could not be made to hold still. But touch - embedded in his mind, down to his very soul. The fingers smoothing back his hair - he smiled at the thought. 

Patroclus’ eyes cracked open, finding Hector’s in the dark. He smiled a little, still half-asleep. 

“ _My Hector_.” His voice was like the stroke of a brush against air. 

He pulled the covers closer, turning his face and closing his eyes again. 

How his heart rang. 

The hollow chambers, that had cracked and crumbled. A bell in the watchtower, long in disuse. It still remembered the sounds it could make. 

He leaned forward and placed his lips on the skin. He had forgotten how to say them without sound. They echoed, clear into the night. There were some things that couldn’t be kept hidden.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The time had come for Menelaus’ offer of truce. The citadel, once home to Argos’ seven, an auspicious location, where decisions were made. He had once walked the halls awaiting his fate. And now, he waited for words that would seal the fate of Argos. 

“How well you look,” Menelaus addressed him, as though in concern for an old friend. He glanced at Agamemnon. “Don’t you think so?” 

Agamemnon did not answer. He crossed his arms, awaiting Menelaus’ proposal. 

“Pity negotiations fell through for the fortress,” Menelaus tutted, shrugging his shoulders in a helpless smile. 

Hector gritted his teeth, but needed no reminder to stay calm. 

“Let’s hope this isn’t the disaster you forced on Ilium,” Agamemnon remarked, indifferently. 

Menelaus lifted a placating hand.   
“More than two years, and we are ready, are we not? Tell me something about the Aristos Achaion you do not know enough to challenge.”

It made Hector frown, head snapping up to study Menelaus. A confident man, but it wasn’t unfounded arrogance. 

In that face was knowledge that few could hide, when one got to know them well enough. 

“Ilium was nothing to you,” he breathed, feeling Agamemnon’s gaze land on him. 

Menelaus smiled. Another shrug. 

“You knew from the start we would be defeated. You didn’t care. Even if it cost you the people of Argos.”

“Small sacrifices,” Menelaus conceded, nodding in encouragement.   
“Every one who makes it on the council knows of this. Even you, Hector.” 

“All this while, and you were already preparing for the real battle. The Achaeans, on Simoeis’ field.”

“I was right about you,” Menelaus commented. He turned his smile to Agamemnon.   
“For so long I thought it was his warrior’s mind that drew you in. I can see now, there is more than one side to the soldier.” 

Agamemnon grunted, but spoke no further. Hector’s trepidation only grew. 

“It was always about the village, wasn’t it?” He could not mask his horror at the realization.   
“Why didn’t you burn it down from the start?”

Menelaus pursed his lips, thinking.   
“Come now, Hector. You know why. Civilians, a casualty of war? A common occurrence. It would have gone unnoticed.”   
His eyes twinkled as he gauged Hector’s reaction.   
“But the length of months passing by, an encampment by the river. Achaean families left in peace as the battle raged on. A broken promise.”

As soon as their backs were turned, the flames had leapt up. It was cause for revenge. Cold and swift, much like the Myrmidons themselves. 

_All those lives_. He shuddered, the past coming back in a rush. Pandarus, locking himself in the food stores. Not even screams had been heard as he burned alive. Euryalus, bleeding to death in Hector’s tent, his last breaths the only sound under the starlit sky. 

Sarpedon. 

The names. The names of the dead, whose graves spanned the length of the river. Names he had stopped counting, because the next day only brought more. 

What would Menelaus do, when they reclaimed the Holy City? What had all this been about? 

He stared at him, locking gazes, not a single faltering second.   
“You are a man who thinks himself a god.”

And how Menelaus leaned back. How he clasped his hands together, graceful and serene, poised and dignified. A living avatar of Tros the priest-king. 

“What say you, Agamemnon?” Menelaus asked, in curiosity.   
“Do you think the same?” 

The older man opened his mouth to speak. 

One second, and two, then the words were wrenched away, a swift stroke of the knife over his throat, slitting it open, blood a stream of red all over Hector’s skin. 

Agamemnon gurgled, eyes widening for a second, before the fire was gone. 

He stared at the scene beside him, the high lord laying still, once the most celebrated man in Argos. 

How quickly life could be snuffed out. 

And then he was out of his chair, frantically scanning the room for the transgressor. Menelaus gazed back at him calmly.   
“There are guards coming down the hallway right this second. Perhaps if you hurry, you will have a head start.” 

He made a gesture, almost in solace.   
“Run.” 

He ran. The thoughts came rushing into his head, and he pushed them away, forcing his will to carry him off, out of the citadel, into the streets. He did not pause to think why Menelaus had spared him. In his heart, he knew.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moon was high when he reached Simoeis, blood racing, not even turning back to see if he had been pursued. He hardly felt the ground under his feet, taking him to the door, thrown wide open for him to burst through. 

His brother and Patroclus were in the sitting room, starting when he entered so abruptly. 

“Hector? What -”

“He’s -” he paused, struggling for air, needing to catch his breath before he doubled over. 

“Agamemnon is dead.” 

A moment of silence, watching their shadows on the polished floor. 

“ _Fuck_.” Polydorus, hands in his hair, starting to pace the room like a caged animal.   
“What do we do? What do we do?” He grew more frantic by the second, even when Patroclus called his name, in an attempt to calm him. 

“We have to leave the city,” Hector continued. “Menelaus … he will be looking for us.”   
Even as the words left his lips, he frowned. 

“You’re covered in blood.” Patroclus’ hushed voice, coming up to him, taking him by the shoulders and looking him over. 

He grabbed Patroclus’ hand and turned to him. “What am I missing?”

Patroclus was staring at him worriedly. 

“We were _right there_. And he had Agamemnon’s throat slit, like it was _nothing_.”

Patroclus’ frown only deepened, face turning pale.   
“Is he after the fortress?” he whispered. 

His head was hurting. It was too much, in so little time. He stopped, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the pounding in his ears start to subside. 

“When the Myrmidons come for Simoeis … he will lead Argos to victory. His final card, before it is all over.” 

“We cannot leave, Hector!” Polydorus insisted, coming out of his stupor.   
“The Myrmidons are on the march even now!”

“It cannot be,” Hector frowned, crossing his arms.   
“We have just -” 

“Look outside the window,” Patroclus murmured, in his ear. His hands never left him. 

He went, with reluctant footsteps, gaze catching their reflections in the window. A little further, out into the blackness. Silhouette against the sky, the war flag of Simoeis waved, emblem of his own house. It must have been raised earlier in the day. 

“He has timed it perfectly,” Polydorus muttered, eyes weary and frightened.   
“With Agamemnon gone … and his men on the hunt for you … the fortress will be his to command. And the Myrmidons will not overtake it.”

What was that under his skin? Sharp edges, that seemed to crawl, making his blood tingle all over his body. 

“We cannot let that happen,” he said. 

“But what are we to do?” 

He turned to his brother, catching Patroclus’ eye in the lamplight.   
“There is always a way.” 

Even in the face of such unrest, he saw Patroclus’ lip quirk upwards, the face of defiance against their fears.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the Myrmidons marched, they made their plans. Hundreds of Danaans had used the southern harbor, where ships awaited to grant them passage to the east. This time, they would not be bargaining for a way to freedom. 

He had not thought of Dardanus for a long time - the city they had nearly destroyed, the walls they had demolished, in a desperate attempt to find their way out. How angry he had been, then, he mused. How he had sworn never to do battle again. But it was not the way the world worked, apparently. He almost cracked a smile at the irony. 

The Dardanians and their tunnels. A people who had wanted to survive. And so they had, at a great cost. He could only hope the gods did not demand such a price when the time came. How much suffering was enough? 

“I used to think I knew what humility was,” Patroclus muttered, making preparations for their trip. 

His hands paused, as if getting lost in thought, the past coming back to haunt him.   
“Now we knock on their gates, imploring their aid, and look into their eyes as we do so.” 

He gave an ironic smile, eyes gleaming.   
“And I ask myself - when has pride ever gotten me what I wanted?” 

He studied Patroclus, taken back to a time from years ago. These were the conversations they used to have, newly married, unsure of one another. But determined to learn. 

“Pride or humility?” he smiled. 

He took Patroclus’ chin, pressed their noses together.   
“You might be the only person I know who has neither.”

“Are you trying to insult me?” Patroclus asked, amusement lacing his expression. 

He didn’t answer, closing his eyes and feeling Patroclus’ warmth against his.   
“It is why you never fail.” 

He took a breath.   
“It is why you won’t fail when you go to Dardanus without me.” 

A pause. 

“No.” 

He opened his eyes again, the darkness of Patroclus’ irises so close to his own. 

“Do not ask me to do this.” 

A grip around his arm, strong in its desperation. 

They stared hard at each other, breath coming quickly. 

“I will be waiting for you. We will watch together when the Dardanians join us, to rally against Menelaus and defend our home from destruction.” 

Patroclus shook his head, seeming to falter between stubborn anger and apprehension. His grip would not loosen around Hector’s arm. He moved his hands up to his shoulders, around his neck. Held him close, their foreheads leaning together. 

“Think of my island,” he said, softly, in Patroclus’ ear.   
“The one you made for me, far away from the war. And then I will be safe, no matter what happens.” 

Patroclus’ grip loosened a little, a tremor starting in his hands.   
“I swore I would never leave you. Not for anything.”

“And you won’t. You will come back to me.” 

His thumbs traced the dark circles under Patroclus’ eyes, catching at the wetness.   
“No tears, remember? Not for me.”

Patroclus sniffed, clearing his throat a little.   
“Of course I remember.” 

He smiled, drawing them closer, breathing in the scent of Patroclus’ hair. It was settled. He would stay behind, leading the men against the oncoming army, holding out hope that reinforcements would arrive from Dardanus. They could not allow Menelaus to win the war. They couldn’t.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No movement, no stirring from the bonds of sleep. Peaceful, it was. The nursery. He had always thought so. Once, he had held Eirene in his arms, looking out the window, wondering if he could ever know her. So many fears, then. He didn’t think they ever ended. He knew they didn’t. 

He reached down to lift Eirene up, to carry her to her room, but stopped. There was something about seeing them together, curled up in Ilus’ bed, the blankets in disarray. How familiar it seemed, making his chest ache, the memory of a little brother who had climbed into his bed, wanting his comfort from lurking dreams. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, wondering where the time had gone. 

He knew all the words Ilus could say, jumbled or not. He could count them on both hands. 

Victory, defeat. Would it be enough? 

There was one lesson he had never been able to learn. How to stop the earth for them, to make time stand still, in hopes they never know the despair that clouded the days ahead. 

He ran a hand over Ilus’ hair, tucked Eirene’s feet back under the blankets. 

“Forgive me,” he said, as though they were listening.   
“That I can’t change the world for you.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first Myrmidon scout was spotted in the distance, and the unease among the garrison’s troops only heightened. How long they could withstand an attack behind their mighty fortress, they didn’t know. But years had gone by, and the army at Simoeis had become a well-oiled machine. Under Sthenelus’ command, they had grown more disciplined, each soldier knowing the fortress like a map in his own head. 

It wasn’t long before Patroclus and the children would depart for the southern harbor, away from the tumult. Each day, he gathered his strength. He would need it, a last surge of will, if only to see them go without the walls of his heart crumbling further.   
\----------------------------------------------------

One last morning, he thought, seeing Patroclus by the window. The sunlight following his every movement, making his shadow dance against the wall. 

Different every time, he thought. 

He had once left this behind with a heavy heart, the seconds growing heavier as they were lost to him. 

Today, he cast it from his mind. 

His gaze followed Patroclus around the room, followed him as he checked his belongings one last time. Held on to it, its warmth steadying his spirit at every turn. 

Patroclus, he thought, the name on his lips. 

As if he heard him, Patroclus looked up. Their eyes found each other. He saw Patroclus’ lips move, as if wanting to say something. Saw them clamp shut. All those nights he had done the same, only to have his words spilling out when neither of them could see. 

Him and Patroclus. As it always was. 

“You will be waiting for us?” Patroclus asked, voice small. His gaze wavered, and he reached out a hand, touching Hector’s cheek. 

How much he sounded like Eirene then, Hector thought, with a smile. He held that hand there. 

Patroclus’ touch. 

His. 

“I always will.” 

The expressiveness of his eyes, every tiny movement that brought his features to life. One look, and a thousand words unsaid between them. 

“Hector.” A fingertip, brushing over the line of his lip.

“I always will.” 

He didn’t know what had caught in his throat, but suddenly he needed Patroclus to hear it. 

“I always will, you understand?” A slow wetness, in his eyes. 

Patroclus was silent, staring at him like he was all he could see.

“I heard you,” he said, softly. 

He felt himself frown. 

“When you whispered to me, in the middle of the night. I heard you.” 

He closed his eyes. “Don’t.” 

Patroclus’ eyebrows drew together, a startled realization rising.   
“You - you thought -” 

He pulled away, even when he wasn’t ready to let go of that touch. Something that had been rooted inside him, for years, that he hadn’t thought would come to the surface. He had known every fear, every loss that chipped away until he broke. The pieces, always put back together, imperfect, and worn, and unsightly. 

They had shared in all things. Their joy, and hope, and sorrow. Moments of trust, of anger, of understanding. All this time, one person by his side. But he didn’t think he had the strength for this. He didn’t think he could bear to find out he had been alone all along, in the one thing his heart had caged, that he had been yearning to set free. 

Patroclus would not let go of him, expression turning helpless, eyes searching as though there were answers he could find.

He shook his head, squeezed Patroclus’ hand, brought it to his chest.   
“It doesn’t matter.” 

There it was. A rising fury, one he hadn’t seen in a while. Patroclus swallowed, straightening and looking him in the eye.

“It was at Dardanus.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but Patroclus lifted a hand to stop him.

“You said my name in your sleep. I think you stole a part of me, that night. And I swore to myself, if you survived -”   
He stopped, closing his eyes and taking a breath.   
“I knew, then.” 

“Patroclus,” he said, his voice giving out. 

“It was the look on your face when you held Eirene in your arms. I knew _then_.”

He had fallen silent, the protests dying on his lips. 

Patroclus looked at him, anger, and sadness, all at once. 

“It was how you wept when Helenus died. I _knew_.” 

His expression faltered, giving way to tenderness.   
“It was the mornings I woke up, and saw you sleeping beside me, knowing you were mine.”

“You … you did?” He couldn’t stop how his voice was trembling. 

“In all our days. You would steal, and steal, until there was nothing left of me. I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough. I was afraid I would be torn apart.” 

“No,” he objected, needing Patroclus to understand. “You were always -”

Patroclus glared at him. “And now I know. After all this _time_. You believed I never … you _believed_ that. You _infuriating, blind, beautiful_ -”

He took his face in his hands, kissed him, again and again. He kissed him until they had run out of air. He kissed him until the room spun around them, until the floor tilted, until the burning in his chest gave way to flickering embers. 

“You did,” he said, feeling it cave away, the key turning in the lock, a flutter of wings in the distance.   
“You did after all.” 

How tightly Patroclus held him. He hadn’t known what it meant to be held like this. Not in the heat of battle, not in the moments after dark, not when they made love. 

Now he knew. 

“Don’t let them take you away from me,” Patroclus breathed.

When had they known to learn each other so closely? 

“Never,” he said.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When would she tire of the story? he wondered. Perhaps she wouldn’t. They were waiting for the caravans to take them away, to the harbor, where Eirene and Ilus would catch their first glimpse of the ocean. 

“How many times did you win, father?” Eirene demanded. 

Her little face was adamant, wanting to know how she could beat him at the game he and Deiphobus had invented for themselves. 

He chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. 

“Why don’t we make a bet?” he suggested. 

She brightened up, excitement crossing her features. “I want the red ships!” 

“Fine,” he mused. “Red ships are yours, black are mine.” 

She frowned, scrunching her nose up.   
“But how will you know if I won, if you’re not going to be there?” 

It made him smile. If there were only little things to worry about. 

“I will know,” he said.   
“Do you want to know how?” 

She nodded. 

He leaned forward, whispering it into her ear. “So you see?” 

Her eyes widened at the idea. “Oh, I _see_!” 

He ruffled her hair.   
“Make sure you look for it before the ship goes into harbor.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Familiar sights. Monstrous shields forming a wall. Old enemies. Old friends.

They stood and watched the vastness of the army, the Myrmidon tents and the Achaean tribes who had joined them. A sea of men, like ants in the grass, from this far away. Their horns blared, the sound like thunder signaling attack. 

“Your orders?” Sthenelus, stone-faced beside him. He had insisted on staying, even when the troops at Dardanus would have needed an experienced general. 

He glanced at Sthenelus, the eyes dim and grey, as they had been for a while. The peach tree, outside Eirene’s room. Withered and bare. 

“Open the gates.” 

He heard the men mutter around him, confusion crossing Sthenelus’ usually blank expression. 

“What?” Sthenelus questioned.

“You heard me.” 

They met gazes. An extension of trust, from one man to another. 

Sthenelus collected himself, turned to the men.   
“Open the gates!” he commanded. 

A flurry of trepidation, of nerves, as the men scrambled to obey their orders. Years, it had taken, to strengthen the fortress until it was up to standard. Years, for the garrison to learn how to defend it. 

Minutes, and the metal ground against metal, the gates creaking as they were swung open. They stood still, the entrance to the fortress laid open and bare, ready for the enemy to march in. 

He waited. 

Across the field, the horns stopped blaring. 

Still, he waited. 

The chants of the soldiers died down. 

And still, he waited.

The army drew back, their positions broken, uncertainty being brought into the lines. 

“You see?” he said. “They will not attack.” 

He scanned the tents, wondering which one it was. 

“He is always one step ahead.” 

He crossed his arms. “But what’s the use of that, when you do not know how to adapt?”   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had set, the last of its light leaving them behind, as they waited behind their walls. 

“What if he calls our bluff?” Sthenelus, blowing air into his palms. It had gotten chilly. 

Hector shook his head. “He would have done it by now.” 

Sthenelus had never met the Aristos Achaion. Even so, anyone could see that their enemies were biding their time. They had left the gates open to appear weak, yet the Aristos Achaion, a skeptical leader, would have been suspicious. Sometimes the nature of men could be played against them. 

“Look.”

In the distance, a lone figure had approached, waving the white flag of parley. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Sthenelus asked.

He nodded. “He wants to talk.” 

So he went, alone, Sthenelus and the others not far behind, forming a guard on the boundary line of the Achaean encampment.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Much like his armor, there was nothing about the Aristos Achaion’s tent that could have been distinguished from the rest. Here was someone who saw himself as an equal among his men, and Hector could respect that. 

He took his seat, masking his surprise at the state of the man across from him. Achilles hadn’t even bothered to stay in full armor, relaxing against his chair in his Achaean robes. 

Bright eyes crinkled at him from across the way. How could he forget? A man who was easily amused.

“You must wonder what our numbers are. Hard to tell, behind those walls.” 

Achilles’ lips curled into a smile.  
“Strength does not always come in numbers. But …” he inclined his head.   
“You are aware.” His Argive had gotten even better, but the accent was still there. 

He studied the man. Nobody in Argos looked like that. What had gone through Patroclus’ mind, to leave it all behind so quickly? He ignored the twinge in his chest at the thought. 

As if reading his mind, Achilles leaned back in his chair. “How is he?” 

Formalities pushed aside for a moment. 

They locked eyes, and he felt the other could see everything inside of him. No words needed. 

Achilles nodded once, as if satisfied. 

“So,” Hector began, collecting his resolve again. “The sun has set. You are most welcome to make camp here. But -” he paused, weighing the words.   
“Tomorrow, you will gather your men. And you will leave Simoeis for good.”

A flicker of a second. 

Achilles threw back his head and laughed. It was a carefree sound, one he hadn’t expected from someone so composed.

“You humor me,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “This is not something they speak of in tales of the Argives.”

Hector stared back at him.

After a while, Achilles’ smile waned, a calculating look crossing his features.   
“It intrigues me that you believe I will heed your words.” 

“That is because you will.” 

A raised eyebrow, but the amusement wasn’t gone.   
“Perhaps the high lord will care to explain?” 

He nodded. Here it was. All his cards on the table.   
“Tell me, Warlord -”

The amusement faded. 

“How long has your father been dead?” 

A chill wind blew through the tent, making him shiver. He didn’t know how Achilles resisted it, in his thin layers. 

“I remember their songs,” he added, softly.   
“They were innocents, who didn’t deserve to die. It was sickening.” 

He looked Achilles in the eye. “But the village isn’t the only reason you’re here, is it?” 

The Warlord Achilles gave him a long and hard look. Finally, he gave in.   
“How?” 

How had he known? A fair question. Few days, he had been given. Few days, to wonder what it was that had seemed so wrong, the moments before Agamemnon’s death. 

A slip of the tongue. The smallest mistake, on Menelaus’ part. 

_Tell me something about the Aristos Achaion that you do not know enough to challenge_. 

The Aristos Achaion. He had said nothing of the Warlord Peleus. He had known who commanded the Myrmidons, which face was behind the helm. 

Sleepless nights, wondering what had been going on that he couldn’t see. The Battle of Ilium, a hoax for something larger. If it hadn’t been for his keen knowledge of the Myrmidons themselves, the nights he had stayed up listening to Patroclus’ stories … he didn’t think he would have connected the dots. 

“I have heard that your people honor death on the battlefield. To die anywhere else … shameful, in their eyes.” 

That look, becoming sharper. 

“It would have been a show of weakness, if it got out how your father had died.” 

“The shame was yours to bear!” Achilles snapped. His mouth lifted into a sneer.   
“Your people. _Snakes_. Walking amongst our own, waiting to strike.”

“Yes. Walking amongst your own. Just as they will do now, when they reach the gates.” 

Achilles frowned, anger temporarily forgotten. “... What?” 

The Dardanians and their tunnels, he thought. So easy to forget how they had gotten there in the first place. Menelaus’ plans had been in the making for a long time. Years ago, he had made a unit of men scale the walls, storming a city while the armies were away on the battlefield. 

And now, it returned full circle. Simoeis and its fortress, all he had done to retrieve it. A distraction, from the army riding for Ilium, while its formidable Warlord was away on foreign soil. Hector had never been a target in the assasination. Menelaus had wanted him alive, to lead the Argives while his own army set out for its prize. Men like him knew how to rule the world. 

But, even in their finest hours, there was no escaping the truth. Two words, and his plans had come undone. 

“I cannot tell you what will happen when he takes your city as his own,” Hector voiced.   
“I can only tell you what I have seen, in the past months, the past years. It is something we must fight against, here in Argos. But no sword or spear will do. Only perseverance, against a man who would sanction the killings of families, the suffering of thousands who have done nothing to deserve it.” 

If someone could see how tired he was. 

“I do not know your gods. And you do not know mine. But we are both soldiers. And we know that men survive under their mercy. We do not reach for the heavens, and ask to walk among them.” 

If he failed, they would fight down to the last man. If he failed, perhaps Argos would endure. But there was no telling what would become of the Holy City. Ilium, sacred land of the Argives and Danaans. He had once thought it an empty promise. But for many, it was home. 

Achilles had been watching him, taking in every word in silence.   
“How do I know you are not lying?” he asked, finally. 

Hector placed his hand in his chin, knowing the risk he was taking. But … there was only one way he knew, to build the bridge. 

“We will leave our fortress open. We will be waiting, throughout the night. But we will not attack. I only ask that you do the same.” 

They would see, he thought. Two sides, taking the other’s measure. If there could be peace, even once, then they would know who the real enemy was.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dawn, rosy fingers threading through the sky. 

In the distance, ants in the grass. 

The Warlord’s armies, gathering in their contingents. 

The men looked on from their open gates, where they had been keeping vigil for the night. They looked on as the Achaeans, longtime enemies, left their lands for good.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What now?” Sthenelus asked, eyes on the last figures racing away on their steeds, black dots against the rolling hills. 

He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. Someone at his side, even when he’d expected to do this alone. There was something else that ran in the family, he thought. 

In the shadows, where the sun had not reached, white figures emerged. The inquisitors, messengers of Tros, and the man who spoke with the god’s voice. 

“They will come for us,” he said. 

How he had fought, on his own terms. But it was never enough. 

Sthenelus was frowning at him, catching his arm in concern.   
“Hector? Are you - are you alright?” 

He gripped Sthenelus’ hand. “I have sworn allegiance to the state, and to my people. And I swear to you once more - I will not stop fighting.” 

He could see Sthenelus was alarmed, but he had made his decision. He had known. One didn’t call for the rain, without expecting to get wet. 

The inquisitors came for him. The Regime, Menelaus’ puppets, notified of what had gone on at the stronghold. And there would be no one else to blame but the one who had made it happen.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Last moments. He could barely remember. His men had been released, he knew. No one would be able to lay blame on soldiers following orders. But a high lord, who had gone against the Regime? 

Traitor, they called him. 

It made him shudder. The word was a knife to the gut, of what he had lost for their nation. A speech on the citadel. A holy war, and glory to the high heavens. All undone. All turned aside. Because of what he had felt was right. 

Sometimes he wondered. He wondered if he had truly wronged them. But then he remembered his daughter’s stumbling hands, placing a cookie on the altar of a nature deity. And the little statues, intricately carved, lined up on his desk. 

He had known. Deep down, he had known. 

It might have taken a war, and the deaths of many for him to realize. It might have taken a death close to his heart, for him to act. But he had done it.   
\---

They had put out his eyes for it. 

He lay in his cell, wanting to know if he would ever wake up to warmth on his face again. The sunlight he had tried to hide from - so far away, now. 

He shivered. It was cold. His body was curled up, broken, the muscles wasted away from exhaustion, malnourishment. He had stopped counting the days.   
\---

A sound of metal, and the cell door swung open. Quiet footsteps, so soft against the stone floor that he knew who it was. 

“What a thing to see.” A disappointed sound. 

“Our little traitor, withered away in a pile of his own filth.”

The footsteps approached, but no touch came. Menelaus would not touch him, he knew. He was far too repulsed to do so. There was a silence, and he knew the high lord was chewing on his words. 

“We intercepted your ship at Dardanus, you know.” 

He stiffened, hearing the smile in that voice. 

“Such a pity. All that for nothing. At least you won’t have to see when the Danaan is taken away again.” 

A soft chuckle.

“Even to the worst sinners, the gods show mercy.” 

He clenched his fists, even though it hurt him to do so. 

“Be back tomorrow.” The footsteps fading away. 

“We will see how much more you can endure.” 

The gate swung shut, and he was left alone again. 

Him and his thoughts. They were all he had, when he was met with darkness, at every turn. But if he imagined hard enough, the pitch blackness gave way, to those golden memories. How beautiful they were.

His chest heaved, and a short laugh escaped. 

How much could he endure? 

Everything. He would await it all, every blow and burn and cut. They could take everything from him. His sight, his health, his dignity. 

But they could not unravel what he had set in motion. 

In utter defeat, there was victory. In shame, there was pride. It was what made them human. A general had taught him that, once. 

Even as he lay under their mercy, he thought of the ones on the sidelines, who saw chaos beneath forced tranquility. He saw his brother, never tiring, swaying minds and capturing attention. He thought of the Dardanians and their tunnels, how a people fought to survive. He thought of the faces in that room, who would persevere. They were a people who would not bow.

And he thought of the empty ship, sailing into Dardanus. He thought of his family, arriving at Pergamum’s harbor, safe haven in a sea of chaos.

The red flag, waving for Eirene. 

Little bird, flying far and free. 

His final goodbye to her. 

And his son. One day. He would find his way back to him, if not in memories, then in dreams. 

Menelaus, sole ruler of Argos. The Regime echoing his every action. Plans would reveal themselves. And when the time came, they would know if men could walk among the gods. Men who reached too far fell the longest, after all. 

But his spirit was set free, for though he had fallen, he had summoned the last of his strength, and pushed the others above the edge. 

Perhaps he would never get to see them grow up. Perhaps when they heard his name, it would be sullied by the words of the Regime. Perhaps they would never know a world where their parents’ two tribes were equal. Perhaps. 

But there was a way. There was always a way. 

To change the world, he had changed the course of history. 

He placed a hand over his heart, imagining those fingers filling in the gaps. The touch, that was his, his alone to remember. 

One night in Lyrnessus. It had brought him a life worth living.


	22. Epilogue

Market days were the worst. His days were filled with unending demands. Danaans in every corner, clamoring to go home. Pergamum was the pearl of the east, but it was not where they had laid down their roots. 

He did not dare to think of it. Simoeis, its golden fields waving. Calling to him. 

Eirene asked about it every day, and he didn’t know how to answer her. 

“When can we see Uncle Polydorus?” 

He could make no promises.

Since the fall of the Regime, the Council of Three had known no rest, crushing the false structures Menelaus had built. Leaders of the revolt. Polydorus, Idomeneus, and Deucalion. 

The greatest challenge was re-establishing diplomatic relations with the Achaeans. It had slowly spread, an Empire, and along the way, the skirmishes never truly stopped. Could longtime enemies really know peace?

It made him think of a morning, long ago, when those troops had gotten up and left Simoeis, files of black figures against the green of the hills. It was a tale to be preserved forever in the minds of the men who had been there. Their fortress, wide open and waiting. And the enemy had left them alone. 

Every twentieth day, he waited for the peach seller outside his stall. His brother’s messages, passed on in little tubes hidden in the fruit. 

Sthenelus had been one of the only Danaans who had chosen to remain in Argos, even when Menelaus had risen to power. 

Years later, it had been him who had stood guard on the dais, as the executions were carried out in the eyes of the public.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Their house was by the river, where Eirene liked to watch the merchant ferries coming in. She and Ilus went out on the water sometimes, laughing as they rowed their wooden boat, trying not to upend it. 

His children. A pull in his heart. _Their children_. 

He could hear them bickering outside, as he went into his study and cut open the fruit. Some days he had to stick his head out the window and yell at them to stop. 

Brother and sister. The best of friends, at times. The most bitter of enemies, at others. Didn’t it sound familiar? 

He thought of this with a smile as he unrolled the parchment, seeing Sthenelus’ rigidly neat handwriting on the surface. Even with the myriad of events that went on in Argos, his brother somehow managed to condense the news into a few short lines. 

He paused, running his finger over a line that stood out. 

Coordinates. Was he deciphering it wrong? 

It lingered in his mind all day, even in light of other news. He tossed and turned in bed, the moonlight outside his window doing nothing to soothe him. When the sun rose, he knew. It would burn in him, until he found out what it was.  
\---------------------------------

He’d taken their boat out to the harbor, the parchment clutched close in his fist. 

He didn’t know what he expected - why his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, as he sailed past the twin islands, that travelers used to determine their arrival at Pergamum. 

The sea was open and magnificent around him, the waves rocking the boat like no other. He let them still him, felt the boat glide out into the unknown, all the while hoping his calculations were correct.  
\---------------------------------

Were beaches supposed to be rocky? He had stopped at a shoreline, the bottom of the boat clashing with grey stone, and he climbed out, wondering if he had gotten it wrong after all. 

He looked around him, at the island. If it could even be called that. 

There was a house in the distance, and he approached, becoming wary when he saw the guards posted outside. They glanced at him, but did not move otherwise. 

“What - what is this place?” he asked. 

One of the guards gave him a stoic look, then jerked his head towards the door.  
“Not many visitors here,” he muttered. “You’ll soon find out.” 

He went in. It was run down, on the inside, not a place fit to live in. The walls and floor were stone, and there was one window, overlooking the sand and the waves. Next to it sat a lone figure, turned away from the glass, seeming not to notice the gorgeous scenery.

He stared. 

His feet must have carried him away, because a second later, his back hit the wall. 

It was a prisoner. 

Sitting quietly, hands in his lap. 

He couldn’t recognize who it was. But then, his gaze landed on the hands, where one palm was turned up. Two lines that met in the middle. Two lines that he would know anywhere. 

He covered his mouth, feeling his chest constrict, insides threatening to burn out in a gathering of flames. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there. 

A dream, he thought. It wasn’t really happening. 

“H-Hector?” The word dared to come out. 

He heard his own footsteps, drawing closer. Eyes roaming, searching. 

_His Hector_. Ruined. 

He knelt in front of him, hands starting to hover. He didn’t want to hurt him. 

All that skin, all the scars. The face. He cringed and looked away. Forced himself to look back, to take it all in. 

Someone had carved words into his flesh. Ugly lies. It made his blood boil, a heat going all the way to the tips of his fingers. 

“It’s me,” he whispered. He reached out a hand, touching the arm.  
“Patroclus.” 

Hector sat quietly, not seeming to hear him. His face was blank, not a flicker of movement from the sunken eyelids. 

“Love?” A tear slid down then. 

How many times had he broken apart, wishing this day would come? 

He wiped it away. He had promised. 

“Hector,” he said. 

He said it, again and again. 

Hector did not hear him, or know to speak.  
\-------------------------------------

He came to visit, every day. 

He felt that he never left, even when his boat launched away from the island, when the sun started to set. 

The island. He shook his head, words from another time filling his thoughts. 

Someplace far away, away from it all. 

He talked to him. He told him about Eirene, how she had almost finished her schooling, ready to go out into the world by herself. He was afraid of losing her, he said. When he looked at her face, he saw that smile, and it cut something in him. How beautiful she was. How fearless, how passionate, how strange. All the gifts she had been given. 

He spoke of Ilus, who sometimes lived in his sister’s shadow. Just a boy, who looked at the world in fascination. Always looking, always searching, as though he would find something, some secret message written in the sky, hidden in the trees, hear it in the rain. How he knew to look, Patroclus didn’t know. 

He didn’t know if Hector heard anything he said. If the words would ever get through to him. 

“Do you remember?” he asked one day, voice shaky. 

“You do, don’t you?” 

He looked at the sightless eyes, the shorn hair, those curls he had loved so much. 

Their softness, over his fingers. How Hector had closed his eyes, getting that look on his face whenever he touched him. 

The sound of his laugh, the way his lip curled when he was in a bad mood, the feeling of his skin. 

How he thought, so loudly, without words, as though the world was a constant enigma around him. 

His lip trembled, the words coming out against his will.  
“You were everything I ever wanted.”

He took Hector’s hand, thumbs tracing over the lines. 

That glint in Hector’s eyes, as he’d held his palm out. 

“Make something up for me.” 

If only he could. 

He found where the skin dipped, those lines that had never changed, no matter how worn the hands were. Their language had never been about the words. 

“ _I can remember for the both of us_.”

Moments dragging by, as though time had slowed.

And then, the fingers, wrapping around his own, as they had done time and time again. 

He closed his eyes, and he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have loved writing this story. Thank you so much for coming along for the ride.


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